JISTHUNTIN 



OZARK mPLEY 




Book 






COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 




Marsh Friends 



JIST HUNTIN' 

TALES OF THE FOREST, FIELD 
AND STREAM 



By 

OZARK RIPLEY 

I ! 



With an Introduction by 
DIXIE CARROLL v 




CINCINNATI 

STEWART KIDD COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



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Copyright, 1921 
STEWART KIDD COMPANY 



All Rights Reserved 
Copyright in England 



JUL 11^21 

q:C1.A614953^- 



DEDICATION 

The big outdoors, in all its ramifications, is an inexo- 
rable taskmaker. Those who are willing to put up 
with its rigors soon learn its hidden treats and intrinsic 
beauties. To no others does it reveal itself as it is — 
alluring, a magician perpetually enthralling its favored 
audience with mysteries that it explains only to those 
who stand the test. 

To the outdoors must be accorded the quickest means 
of learning a companion as he is; not as he wishes you 
to know him, but the actual man. The tests of the trail, 
the long canoe routes, the sedge and ragweed fields, and 
mist-laden streams disclose everything. There is nothing 
in the make-up of man that can be concealed in the wild 
places, above all friends and friendships. In such locali- 
ties alone do we discover whether they are worth while 
or the kind that must endure. 

The sifting process of Dame Nature ultimately decides 
for us, whether we wish or no, those whose sterling worth 
and varied experiences entitle them to the name of sports- 
men. So while thinking over the days spent in undomes- 
ticated places, there stands one who has passed all the 
tests of friendship as an angler, hunter, and trail mate, 
I dedicated this work to Dixie Carroll. 

Ozark Ripley. 



INTRODUCTION 

I HAD everything doped up for a regular high- 
class introduction for "Jist Huntin'," but the notes 
have flown, disappeared into the yawning mouth of 
my filing cabinet, probably lost forever. Although 
this cabinet is a thoroughly modern afi^air, it seems 
to take fiendish delight in helping me to keep my old- 
time record of "a place for everything and nothing 
in its place." How notes filed under the letter "A" 
can turn up later under "Q," or not at all, is a mys- 
tery too deep for me to solve. 

Ozark Ripley is a man's man, a regular he-man 
who loves the out-o'-doors, the far reaches of the 
outlands, the quiet places of the hinterlands. He 
is one of the best pals I have ever had the pleasure 
of knowing, and when a fellow can say that of another 
lad, there is little more to say. 

Ozark loves dogs, he knows more about hunting 
dogs and their training than any other man I know, 
and every dog I have ever known loved Ozark. 
A man who loves dogs and is loved by dogs always 
rings true. He is a friend always, one that you can 
count on to the last shot. 

From twenty years living continuously in the 

5 



INTRODUCTION 

wilds of the outlands, Ozark has had experiences 
with rod and gun that fall to the lot of few men, 
and these years have been spent in study of nature 
and her children. Few men know the real out-o'-doors 
like Ozark — not the out-o'-doors of the featherbed 
resorts, but the good old mother earth out-o'-doors 
with a frying pan, a pack o' flour, a piece of bacon, and 
a blanket. The out-o'-doors of the rushing, tumbling 
stream, the wind-kissed lake waters, the woodland 
trail and portage, the sweet flower-scented swamp- 
lands, God's greatest gifts to us his earth children. 
Ozark, if you send the call, whether it comes from 
the swamp-lands of the South, the granite tipped 
mountains of the Rockies, the cold far reaches of the 
northlands, the wooded hill country of the land 
you love, the Ozarks, I'll pack the duffle and come 
a-running to spend a day, a week or months with 
you beside the old camp-fire, the trails and "sich," 
living over the days a-gone and the new ones ahead, 
for the joys o' trailing with you are what makes life 
worth living in these days of the canyon-walled cities 

builded by man. 

Dixie Carroll. 



FOREWORD 

That irresistible urge, reminiscence, influenced 
the writing of this collection of outdoor tales. They 
are the experiences of a sportsman, naturalist and 
wanderer, who spent a quarter of a century in the 
big outdoors. The impulse to jot them down took 
hold, but he refrained until the habit of visualizing 
days in the forests, fields and on the streams could 
be denied no longer. 

The simple, objective path was followed as a help 
to beginners. Close adherence to topography and 
the habits of wild life was pursued consistently to 
remind old timers of similar days and that their 
assistance is needed to help perpetuate the present 
supply of undomesticated creatures. 

Ozark Ripley. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I In the Days of My Youth - _ - _ 1 1 

II Setter Against Pointer ----- i8 

III A Day with the Longbills - - - - 26 

IV In the Chicken Country - - - 34 
V Hunting Squirrels with Mizzoura - - 44 

VI My Ducking Pond in the Hills - - ^^ 

VII After Canadian Honkers ----- 61 

VIII In the Lair of the Small-Mouths - - 70 

IX "Jist Tossums" ------- 78 

X With White River Elk - - - - 84 

XI My Pet, the Woodcock ----- 92 

XII No Feud --------- 97 

XIII Southern Bear Hunting - - - - - 112 

XIV The Giant Gobbler of Gun Bluff - 120 
XV Hunting Ducks on a Swift Waterway - 128 

XVI Hunting Whitetails with Josh - - 135 

XVII The Hillbilly's Guest ------ 143 

XVIII The White Wolf ------- 161 

XIX Vacant Collars -------- 168 

XX Raoul and My New Brunswick Moose 174 

XXI Strongfang of the Swamps - - - - 182 



JIST HUNTIN' 

I 

In the Days of My Youth 

The age of fourteen is regarded by most parents 
as an early start for a boy in the shooting game. 
But Father insisted a boy was never too young to 
handle a gun, if he hunted alone. Such a thing as 
an accident he never considered probable; boys 
only got into mischief when with others. On account 
of his pet notions I had been given a gun, and with 
it the services of Father's old pointer, Duke. 

For some reason Father preferred to shoot over 
younger dogs. And, as my mind hurtles back to the 
days of my youth, I distinctly recall that with them 
the old liver and white colored dog was a creature 
without an imperfection. As our quail season 
opened early in November, Duke always followed me 
to school. Because I carried my gun with me it was 
an additional incentive for the old campaigner. 
During the day his behavior was excellent, except 
after dinner, when every once in a while he snored 
loudly from his position back of teacher's desk. Then, 
too, he evoked much merriment from the pupils 
as he twitched grotesquely and uttered queer sounds, 
no doubt dreaming of some of his erstwhile amazing 
feats in the quail fields. A mere touch with the 
teacher's rule brought him back to a state of quies- 

II 



JIST HUNTIN' 

cent slumber. But teacher's touch was gentle, as 
he had great admiration for Duke. 

On the way home Duke and I hunted the fields. 
In this manner I kept the family larder well supplied 
with birds. 

"Jack, why don't you ever take old Duke along?" 
said my mother as she directed loving glances at 
father. "You always take those two young pointers 
along. It seems as though you were neglecting the 
dear old fellow. It is not fair to the old dog!" 

"Oh — Duke — is good enough," father replied, 
smiling half-apologetically while the big dog's brown 
eyes rested on him, "but the old fellow is incor- 
rigible — breaks shot so badly that he would just 
ruin the young dogs." 

Had Father struck me a blow with his fist it 
could not have shocked me more than this announce- 
ment. Ever since a child I had loved dogs. Always 
I had wanted to own one. When Duke was assigned 
to me by Father, I was in a state of rapture, only 
equaled by the occasion when Father presented me 
with my first gun. 

That Duke had a fault I could not believe. To 
me he was the supreme being among dogs. I loved 
him, as only a healthy outdoor boy can love his 
field companion. It seemed as though some dread- 
ful accusation had been lodged against my favorite. 
So surprised was I at my father's words that I stood 
motionless on the front porch, holding the strain- 
ing lead of the old pointer, literally burning from the 
insult, speechless to the point that I never so much 

12 



IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 

as bade him good by when he proceeded to the 
hunting grounds. 

"Breaking shot — what is that?" I repeatedly 
asked myself while enroute to school with Duke. 
I examined the big fellow all over, expecting every 
moment to discover some blemish that had escaped 
me. I saw none. His gait was snappy, the car- 
riage upstanding as ever. "What in the world did 
father mean by breaking shot.'' Was'nt I positive 
that Duke was the best dog in the world?" 

"What is the matter, Bob?" questioned teacher 
at the noon hour. He had beheld me continually 
eying Duke and unusually silent. 

"Oh — nothing." I almost whimpered. "I guess 
nothing." 

"Now, Bob, out with it!" Mr. Hudson knew 
boys. "Don't treat your old shooting friend that 
way. Come on, now. Something the matter with 
Duke, eh?" 

"Not exactly," grudgingly I admitted. Then, 
suddenly gaining courage, I asked: "Mr. Hudson, 
you have hunted a great deal with Father; what is 
breaking shot?" 

"Breaking shot!" He laughed aloud. "Why such 
a question? Has your father been talking to you 
about it?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, if that is all that worries you, that old dog 
of yours used to be an expert at it and has never 
been cured. But, if you really don't know it is when 
a dog breaks in on birds to retrieve the instant the 

13 



JIST HUNTIN' 

birds flush and the gun is fired. Old Duke was al- 
ways incurable after once the habit got hold of him. 
Otherwise your father would not have given him 
solely for your shooting." 

Without comment I received the old master's 
statement. But, as I sat in school the remainder of 
the afternoon, I felt sure I could cure my dog of the 
habit. I had been so long accustomed to regard 
him as the greatest of dogs, this one fault in my eyes 
assumed mammoth proportions and I determined 
to exert everything within my power to correct it. 

It was on a Friday when the one frailty of my be- 
loved Duke became known to me. As Saturday 
was my holiday it would prove an excellent time to 
start my efforts at correction toward my pet. I 
pored over the books my father had on dogs, for 
they were many, and memorized everything about 
training, mostly the use of the choke collar with a 
long lead, far more rapidly than I ever had my lessons. 

Saturday was one of those cold, gray, cloudy days, 
presaging snow at any moment. To me, however, 
it was an ideal time for working with my pupil. 
Equipped with a long lead, in addition to my gun 
and a choke collar, Duke and I sought the quail 
grounds. He was as frisky as a two-year-old, cover- 
ing the big fields in the fast swinging gait which had 
so endeared him to me. 

Presently Duke drew up into a staunch point. 
Statuesque-like he stood; head high, against wind, 
nostrils aquiver, recording perfect recognition of 
body scent. 

14 



IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 

While the dog remained fast in this position, I 
snapped the lead to the choke collar which I had 
placed around his neck when we left home. I stepped 
back, taking firm hold of the lead just as Father's 
book directed. I shouted. The birds flushed. 

To keep with the instructions of the book, I be- 
stowed my attention only on the dog's training, and 
fired my gun in the air, giving a jerk on the lead. 
The book assured that this would throw the dog back 
on his haunches the moment he broke prematurely 
for the birds. The writer of that book certainly 
never had had experience with a dog of Duke's 
strength. The instant the big fellow heard the gun 
he bolted. The lead was abruptly torn from my 
hands and Duke raced out madly for the flying 
birds. 

Several times I tried to hold him. At first I suf- 
fered only disappointment, but at last having no 
success, I yielded to a sudden seizure of anger. Then 
I cried, shouted, and cried again, calling the old 
rascal every reviling name within my youthful 
vocabulary. 

But Duke was obdurate as ever. 

All at once a sinister inspiration assailed me. I 
would fix that old dog! He had gotten the best of 
Father, but I would show him! I knew a sure way 
of making him see his fault and correct it, too, for 
good! 

While I was still in the throes of anger, Duke 
came to point on top of a small ridge which sloped 
on the other side into a heavy growth of briars and 

15 



JIST HUNTIN' 

saplings. I backed off about fifty or sixty yards from 
the dog and fired my right barrel. Surely the devil 
had possession of me. For, when the old dog broke, 
I fired the left barrel directly at him. Just one yelp 
of pain I heard as the number 8 pellets rattled against 
the saplings. Only then I realized my folly. 

I ran to the top of the ridge. I could neither hear 
nor see Duke. Here and there on the frost-stricken 
vegetation were small spots of blood. In trepidation 
I whistled and called, but Duke did not respond. 

What a fool I had been! My dearest companion 
I had wounded fatally. No doubt he had crawled 
off somewhere in his misery to die. If a murderer 
has a conscience his suffering must be intense, grant- 
ing that he only experiences half the anguish I did 
that day. 

"You are not fit to own a dog!" I scourged my- 
self as the wind beat against my back. "You are 
not fit to own a dog — nor a gun either!" And right 
then I vowed never again would I trust myself with 
a gun or even seek the possession of another dog. 

My gloomy visage on arrival home excited no 
comment. The sleet had changed to snow. My 
silence and lack of game were attributed to the 
weather. But my heart was jumping every moment, 
for I anticipated the question, where was Duke? 

Always the big pointer slept in a large box on the 
porch near my bedroom window, in which I had 
made a generous bed of rye straw. Duke was not 
there, nor was he to be found about any place. Be- 
cause the matter of feeding the dogs was entrusted 

i6 



IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH 

to me, his absence was not noticed, but my un- 
usually silent deportment was. 

Mother sent me to bed with a kiss, though I had 
heard her afterwards remark to father: "I fear Bob 
took cold out in the storm, he is so quiet tonight." 

"Oh, I guess not," Father said in reply. "He's 
got the dumps because the weather stopped his 
shooting." 

The number of times that night I raised the win- 
dow and peeped into Duke's empty box I still can 
recall. The window was on a level with the porch. 
But, finally wearying from the vigil, my sobs ceased 
and I went to sleep. 

Some time during the night a tapping sound on 
the window awoke me. Only a few days ago I 
reflected the Hawkins home had been visited by 
some one and many valuable things had been stolen. 
The sound ceased. But I could sleep no more, 
notwithstanding that I kept my head well covered. 

After a while the noise was repeated. Then I 
gained courage and looked toward the window. The 
snow without was as bright as a silver blanket. 
Trembling, I got out of bed and lit the lamp. All 
at once a dark form appeared against the panes. 
Boy as I was I could stand the strain no longer. 
With a loud cry I ran to the window and opened it. 

My cry awoke the entire household. Hasten- 
ing with alarm. Mother and Father arrived at my 
room. But they soon realized that there was no 
cause for worry, as their only boy was down on his 
knees hugging and kissing his first dog. 

17 



II 

Setter Against Pointer 

If ever Mac admitted that his setter, Jocko, had 
an equal, I am sure it was never done in my presence. 
There was nothing of beauty about his big setter, 
but he adored him from his black nose to his long 
bushy tail. Jocko weighed close to seventy-five 
pounds, a remarkable weight for the setter breed. 
But Mac never classed this as either a handicap or 
defect, and once lost his best farmer friend because 
he became indignant when that unfortunate indi- 
vidual, attracted by the immense size of the dog, 
asked if he rode him out shooting. 

On other subjects Mac could stand humorous 
reference, but when they took in Jocko, never. 

"Got a young dog you'd like to have learn some- 
thing about quails?" queried Mac, regarding Jocko 
with supreme contentment. "If you have, let's 
hunt the hill lands tomorrow — he'll sure get ex- 
perience." 

This was Mac's annual way of broaching the sub- 
ject of the opening of the quail season; and, know- 
ing that I had sent off for a young dog, he thought 
it would be a good opportunity for Jocko to show 
him off. Before answering I stood still and surveyed 
Jocko with amusement. 

"Alright, Mac," I agreed. "I got a youngster 

i8 



SETTER AGAINST POINTER 

coming in tonight. Perhaps he will make that old, 
shaky setter of yours hustle some — never saw him — 
though." 

Mac interrupted further speech by laughing at 
my allusion to Jocko. In other eyes than his, the 
big fellow was no beauty. His coat was a dirty 
tri-color blend of black, white and tan. And, as 
a few years back he had suffered from an incurable 
attack of chorea, he still shook constantly, very 
much resembling the combined ills of a chill and an 
acute seizure of delirium tremens, working in per- 
fect harmony. 

"That's quite a good looking dog for a pointer, 
said Mac next morning while bestowing a conde- 
scending look on a handsome, racy-built black and 
white pointer as we walked toward the shooting 
grounds. "And if there was ever such a thing as a 
pointer having a chance with a setter, which is 
impossible, that would be about the proper speci- 
men." 

This was another persistent fancy on the part of 
my shooting chum; no pointer could ever hope to 
perform as well as a setter. With him it was 
an impossibility. His favoritism toward the long- 
haired breed was so strongly prejudiced as his ob- 
stinate predilection for his incorrigible Jocko. 

"Let's work out the Johnson field," I suggested, 
the moment both dogs were free from their leads. 
Then I interjected, "it will test out the two dogs." 

"Yes, and right here is where that pointer of yours 
is going to be run off his legs, and before a half hour 

19 



JIST HUNTIN' 

elapses, too," prophesied Mac. "Why, he won't 
find one tenth the birds Jocko does!" 

As usual Jocko cast wide. While the big setter 
trembled, like well-functioned castanets, he had fair 
speed, good range, but at no time in his shooting 
career had he shown to be under control of his stocky, 
little, red-faced master. But the pointer also swung 
out wide, high-headed, beating for the wind, show- 
ing the mastery of the high class bird dog's art, for 
he handled every wind shift and set a pace hope- 
lessly beyond the powers of the old setter. 

The pointer, seemingly increasing speed as he 
came to a draw, flashed into a perfect upstanding 
point. 

"He's got 'em!" I announced. 

"False point," sneered Mac. "If birds were there 
Jocko would have had them long ago. Anyway, we 
will walk up and see." 

When almost within shooting distance of the dog's 
point Jocko appeared, saw Rip, the pointer, and 
without exhibiting the slighest inclination to back 
the proper respect for another dog's point — galloped 
to his side, drew up for a second, then jumped into 
the quails, Mac all the while shouting at the top 
of his voice, "Steady, Jocko! Steady, Jocko!" 

But the old setter did the damage, though one 
bird flew by Mac, which he stopped neatly. 

"Did you see where the flock went. Jack?" Mac 
called out. "Where did Jocko go. ^ I'll just have to 
have him find this dead bird!" 

"Jocko," I laughed aloud, "last I saw of him he 

20 



SETTER AGAINST POINTER 

was in those tall rag weeds, in a dead run to beat 
those quails to the timber." 

"That's just what a fellow gets for working Jocko 
with a green dog!" exclaimed Mac in a serious tone. 
"If it had not been for that fool young pointer flush- 
ing those birds, the old fellow never would have be- 
come excited." 

"Fool young pointer!" I remarked to myself, 
for Mac's face had a purple tint. "By the way, Mac, 
that fool young pointer's still on point." 

With affected unbelief that there could still be a 
bird remaining, Mac followed me to the dog's heel. 
A single quail burst in flight. Mac killed it, the bird 
dropping within a few feet of the first. 

Rip retrieved both. Mac accepted them in rather 
an ungracious manner, though when Mac was shoot- 
ing in good form usually he was kindly disposed 
toward man and beast. But the shaft of Jocko's 
shortcomings had sunk deeply; and the shortcomings 
were difficult to overlook notwithstanding Mac's 
pretense that they were nonexistent. 

Apparently for a while Jocko had erased himself 
from the landscape. To this I called the quail 
hunter's attention. 

"We'll find the old reliable somewhere on point," 
he predicted. "Never in his life has he been gone 
this long except when struck on birds." 

W^e searched all over the farm, but no Jocko re- 
sulted. The pointer simply ate up distance and 
unerringly worked to the timber, where instantly he 
froze on one of the scattered birds. This was my 

21 



JIST HUNTIN' 

chance for a shot. Much to Mac's delight I missed 
with both barrels, and he performed the friendly 
office of wiping my eye by killing the birds. One 
after the other the young pointer snapped birds up 
in point, with all the precision of an experienced 
field dog above ordinary ability. 

After the shooting Jocko hove in sight, im- 
mediately pointed a single and remained steady on it. 

"How's that for an intense point, Jack?" Mac 
said, as his big setter stood jerking as though every 
part of his anatomy was about to fly away. 

Almost at the same moment Rip drew up to back 
but, feeling the wind, worked right on ahead. 

Mac's wrath descended on the pointer: "That 
pointer's got no more nose than a land turtle!" 

I could not wait to hear more, for one of those 
tiny field sparrows, locally called stink birds, flew 
out of the grass. It was too difficult an efi^ort to 
restrain my desire to laugh. So, without looking at 
Mac, I strode in another direction, where the black 
and white had made a cast. 

From that time Jocko appeared under control. 
Some little scene must have been enacted between 
him and my bosom shooting companion. Mac had 
not followed me. From a distance came profane 
sounds and an occasional yelp of a dog as though in 
pain. 

The setter fancier was soon with me, however, and 
we proceeded over a rise where the pointer stood 
marble-like on birds. Evidently Mac's attention to 
Jocko was resultful. The old dog backed nicely 

22 



SETTER AGAINST POINTER 

and was steady to shot as we executed kills; Mac's 
being an extremely tantalizing double, and because 
I complimented him over the feat, the incident of 
the setter's omissions passed out of mind. 

Though up until noon Jocko worked up to his 
toppiest form, the class of the pointer unmistakably 
showed superiority. In speed, range, staunchness 
and bottom — for there was no let-up in his going — 
he was indellibly stamped a classy bird dog. With 
another dog perhaps Jocko might have shone, but 
in contrast with the pointer his work was unmis- 
takably ordinary. 

As Mac's shooting had been good, when we sat 
down by a spring for lunch he committed himself 
so far as to pet the black and white's head with 
some display of admiration, until at last my inabil- 
ity to keep back a secret forced me to say for com- 
fort, if nothing else: 

"Mac, I am seriously considering buying a pointer. 
This fellow appeals to me. In fact, I believe pointers 
are better than setters." 

"Why, the idea!" my stocky shooting chum ex- 
claimed, flushing scarlet. "Of course there are a 
few pointers, but altogether they can never compare 
with setters. Everything is positively in favor of 
the setter!" 

It was certainly amusing to hear that quail hunt- 
er's discourse on his long-haired friends, as he cited 
Jocko for example. So bound up in the old dog had 
he been for the last seven years, there was not the 
slightest possibility of bringing forth anything in 

23 



JIST HUNTIN' 

favor of pointers, no matter how I strove to effect 
it. He went so far after I spoke of buying a pointer 
that his attitude of friendliness toward Rip changed 
to one of offense. He could not see a thing good in 
him. His loyalty to the old dog and the breed he 
represented were unswerving. 

But the afternoon with its abundance of birds only 
exhibited more the marvelous ability of the pointer. 
Once in a while Jocko found a covey, not through 
inability, but the surpassing class of the youngster 
left no other opportunities. Seemingly there was 
no let up to his speed. High-headed, frictionless 
in action, his pace accelerated as the day wore on. 
Never in all our hunts did we kill so many birds, 
nor in that time had we seen such a remarkable per- 
former. 

Jocko did his best at least. Age and disease had 
sapped some of his vitality, but at his best he never 
approached the class displayed by the young dog. 
And still that pointer continued at the same clip — 
perhaps even faster — for the rest of the day. Try 
as he would. Jocko could do no more than lag at a 
distance. The big fellow was succumbing to the 
hot pace set on both coveys and singles. But the 
pointer persisted, always flashing into spectacular 
points when the fields promised most to be barren 
of birds. 

When the sun left a red glow over the western 
hardwoods we turned our faces toward home. Mac 
was silent. Jocko, sore-footed, dragged behind his 
master. 

24 



SETTER AGAINST POINTER 

For a while I waited for Mac to say something, 
and at last he did, as he regarded my many glances 
of admiration at the still hustling pointer. 

"Pretty good young dog, Jack," Mac commented, 
not daring to look Jocko in the eye. He spoke as 
though with difficulty. "Even if he is not a setter, 
I'll admit that. Of course I don't want you to 
follow my advice, but, were I you and didn't mind 
it being a pointer so much, I'd buy that dog if I 
could get him cheap enough." 

"Cheap enough, Mac!" I laughed uproariously, 
twining my arms around him to keep him from 
doing me damage in case of a sudden access of 
anger. "Why, Mac, I haven't enough money to 
buy the tip of his tail! I borrowed that dog to give 
that shaky setter of yours a good trimming. That's 
Captain Harrison's sensational field trial winner, 
Jingo Rip!" 



2S 



Ill 

A Day with the Longbills 

Mac's message coming twenty miles over the 
rural phone, announcing that the snipe were in, 
proved as always the influence the call of the wild 
had on me. Though I treated all of his announce- 
ments of the presence of game with verbal doubts, 
invariably I responded. I could never take Mac 
seriously, like he did himself. No one ever takes a 
fat man seriously, least of all when he is his closest 
friend and constant shooting companion. 

The spring rains had come. Even in the hills 
where I resided I was aware that the jacksnipe were 
enroute north. Only a moment before Mac's call 
while standing on the front porch I felt sure I heard 
a bleating "Scaip!" from a distance in the meadow. 
Some fatigued long-billed gentleman had dropped 
in for a few hours rest. This had always been re- 
garded by me as advance notice of their arrival in 
tremendous numbers over in the Black River swamps, 
where my serious little fat friend resided and guided 
the destinies of a large hardwood mill and its two 
thousand black employees. 

"Don't look like much of a day for snipe!" pessi- 
mistically I remarked to Mac as early in the morning 
we walked to the snipe grounds. During the night 
the weather had turned cold, freezing the top soil 

26 



A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 

slightly. Occasionally thin ice was visible where there 
was water. "Too cold; any jacks that came in 
lately must have hit the trail back for the South." 

"Don't fret," Mac grumbled between chattering 
teeth, while trying to conceal his annoyance at the 
change in the weather conditions. "They are here 
somewhere, and soon our sixteens will be getting 
hot from overwork!" 

"If they do, I'll be the most surprised man in the 
world!" I retorted, for I knew to differ with Mac was 
just what he most liked. 

Mac's nature was one that never cared for a friend 
that agreed with him. I had learned this long ago. 
"Well, I'll show you; before we get to those woods 
east of us we will kick up a dozen or more," Mac 
vouchsafed rather earnestly. 

We took the first wet meadow, pursuing a course 
due east. The underfooting was exceedingly miry, 
as during the incessant rains cattle had pastured 
there. They left deep, small holes wherever their 
hoofs had rested. On occasions they would be 
frozen sufficiently to bear our weight, then the next 
step our boots sank past ankle-deep in the mud. 
Mac separated from me, as was our customary 
manner of hunting jacks, forty yards to my 
right. 

Though we hunted carefully over eighty acres of 
meadow, we were unable to flush a single bird. We 
entered another enclosure. Near a cattle feeding 
trough where the ground was soft Mac put up a 
jack at about thirty-five yards distance. This bird 

27 



JIST HUNTIN' 

was in full racing trim, for he was off at a tremendous 
clip, zigzagging in flight so deceptively that Mac 
wasted two shells. 

"No use snipe getting up near you," I flouted Mac 
with his miss, then softened the remark. "I guess 
those eyes of yours are going badly back on you. 
That snipe was seventy-five yards off when you shot 
at it. What's the matter with your eyes, anyway?" 

"For several days my eyes have been troubling 
me," he exclaimed. "I am sure I will soon have to 
wear glasses." 

By attributing any of Mac's shooting shortcom- 
ings to his eyes, I could always get on the best side 
of him. His most conspicuous hunting frailty was 
that every miss he blamed on his innocent eyes. 
Such a thing as imperfect alignment happening on 
his part he never considered possible. Naturally 
when he had an attack of gooseggs, he did not blame 
himself, always those eyes. But none had ever 
heard Mac utter the slightest complaint when he 
was shooting in form. 

Before our arrival at the woods east of us Mac 
missed another of those long-billed birds for which 
he had a consuming passion. It was an easy straight- 
away, and I was again on the point of referring to his 
failing sight when a negro's voice called from the 
road. 

"Mistah Mac, am you atter dem snipes?" a small, 
aged black inquired politely, dofiing his tattered 
felt hat. 

"Do you knov/ where they are, Ike?" Mac que- 

28 



A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 

ried in reply. "All that were here yesterday seem 
to have left." 

"Haint none of 'em left," declared Ike. "Reckon 
you all don't know whar they iz. Las' night when 
the stohm cum from de nawth I heered them a 
drappin' into the elbow bresh 'cross the railroad 
tracks. They sho' is a-gwine to stay in dar 'till the 
sun wahms up sum!" 

"Bully for you, Ike!" I exclaimed. "Let's strike 
for over there, Mac." 

Where the old negro directed us for miles a wet 
slash divided the flat through the fields of corn, 
cotton and grass. There was always water there; 
and in parts for at least a half mile it was well grown 
up with a riot of elbow brush. Frequently we had 
seen snipe pitch in it, but on account of the number 
of open fields we seldom followed. 

By the time we came to the elbow brush thicket 
the sun had gained eminence, and already the 
frozen fields had thawed under its ardent rays. The 
very first step in the brush showed that all the snipe 
in the neighborhood had congregated there during 
the night for the shelter of the tall swamp grasses. 
This was the first time in my life I had ever seen 
such an assembly of gallignago delicata. Their 
numbers were unbelievable. Our first advance 
flushed birds far out of range and, as is the case on 
rare occasions of this kind, a single bird's note 
flushed thousands and thousands, and notwithstand- 
ing the greatness of their numbers not one was within 
shooting range. 

29 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Scaip! Scaip! Scaip! we heard in every direction 
until the birds became mere pin specks against the 
sky. 

But this promised later shooting, for the birds 
did not return to the elbow brush but scattered 
throughout the vast meadows and low-lying fields 
in singles and pairs. And so long as we looked, we 
could see them pitching into the fields until we lost 
estimate of the number of birds or their location. 

For a time I heard nothing more of Mac's eyes. 
He shot splendidly. Almost every twenty feet we 
put up some of the artful dodgers, but I was not 
quite in such shooting form as my companion. I 
began by missing a few, then more as Mac bestowed 
advice on me which did not improve my skill. 

Some old timers encourage novices with instruc- 
tions on snipe shooting, which includes the advice 
to hunt against wind as then the birds invariably 
afford an easy crossing shot. The birds I shot at 
had never been educated along these lines. They 
would not perform according to putative rules es- 
tablished by experts. They got up any way they 
felt; against wind, down wind, to the sides, depict- 
ing gyrating dives, spiral flights, impossible angles, 
and the utmost speed. When I made three straight, 
which was seldom, Mac only sneered and continued 
making good runs. 

Soon, however, I improved my shooting as I took 
to snap shooting, but Mac's steady pace was almost 
too much to overcome. I reflected, if I could do 
something to get on his nerves, perhaps there would 

30 



A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 

be a chance to equal him. A sudden inspiration 
took hold of me. I would try it, though it threat- 
ened to disrupt our friendship for some time to come. 

"By the way, Mac," I remarked, "your eyes 
never do hurt you when you are killing a bird every 
shot!" 

"Why, of course not!" he said, turning a flushed 
face my way. "Why?" 

"There never was nor will be anything the matter 
with your eyes," I commented as he finished a run 
of ten straight, regardless of his reception of my 
statement. "That's only an excuse when you miss!" 

"Why — what — do — you — " Mac started to re- 
tort hotly. "You don't think for a moment I would 
offer an excuse when I know — " 

But Mac never finished. A single fat jack flushed 
at his feet from a small bunch of sedge grass. It 
was the biggest yet the most sluggish snipe I ever 
saw. 

"Kill that cripple, Mac!" I exclaimed. 

Mac fired at it twice, missing with both shots. 
He never looked at me, but I could descry the purple- 
red coming in his face. The snipe dropped back in 
the marsh about sixty yards ahead. 

"Come, watch me, Mac!" I cried, determined to 
kill that jack. Like he performed for Mac, he rose 
in flight lazily, but sure as I was, I missed him with 
both barrels. 

As if eluding both of our guns was not sufiicient 
that jack suddenly turned, beat back toward Mac 
and dropped in a wet swale a few yards away from 

31 



JIST HUNTIN' 

him. Mac was positive the snipe's last flight was to 
begin. He walked up to the bird with an air of dis- 
dain for any opinion I held on the subject of his 
shooting. But that tantalizing longbill permitted 
his approach to fifteen yards, then flew, affording 
an easy side shot. Again, much to my amusement 
Mac missed twice. 

"Your eyes hurting you?" I yelled gleefully as 
the jack scaiped near me, an easy overhead shot 
wliich I missed cleanly. 

"No!" shouted Mac at me, "but yours are!" 

What could we do but both laugh and forget the 
subject of his eyes. Afterward we agreed that jack 
bore a charmed life. We repeated our missing 
several times. After each flight the bird circled but 
dropped back in the same field. A spirit of compe- 
tition to get that jack ensued. First I missed, then 
Mac performed in like manner. At last we drew a 
small fluttering feather, otherwise the bird appeared 
unharmed for he flew a little further than formerly 
before alighting. 

"Come, Mac, forget what I said. Let's get to- 
gether and kill that defiant rascal," I said. 

"Alright," the fat hunter agreed, smiling. "Let's 
walk up to him and shoot together the instant he 
gets up." 

When within twenty yards of the longbill, the 
bird shot up from the grass. We emptied the con- 
tents of both of our gun barrels. Not a feather 
dropped as reward. Toward the north the bird flew 
swiftly, towering and towering until, like some of 

32 



A DAY WITH THE LONGBILLS 

his startled mates, he was only a pin speck. But 
he continued circling until almost overhead, then he 
dropped like a plummet into a meadow not many 
yards away. 

"We will get him this time!" vehemently I pre- 
dicted. 

"Sure we will," Mac echoed, "for we will both 
hold carefully this time. No more fooling." 

Cautiously we stepped over the low fence into the 
adjoining field. The bird did not flush. We walked 
around and around, but that queer bird refused 
to fly. 

Presently something attracted my eyes, , some- 
thing white contrasting strangely with the young 
green herbage. I grasped Mac's hand and shook it 
heartily, as I viewed the tricky jack lying dead on 
its back, its white breast turned to the sky. 



33 



IV 

In the Chicken Country 

Nothing less than the promises of the tall Kansan 
could have induced me to take the trip to the Ne- 
braska prairies. His entertaining ways, actual 
knowledge of game, and many little kindnesses which 
he constantly showered my way when in the moun- 
tain country proved the irresistible factors luring 
me. Then there was the contagiousness of his 
presence; he was one of those blonde-headed, amiable 
outdoor chaps, with gray eyes and a love tor every- 
thing associated with wild life, whom I wanted to 
shoot with again, even if it had to be far away in the 
country about which he talked so often. 

"Well," he greeted me, smiling. And the warmth 
of his handshake impressed me more than words. 
"Took a lot of coaxing to get you away from that 
hill country. Thought you would come chicken 
shooting. Right now my old dog's sick. Reckon 
those two liver and white pointers you brought will 
be any good on chicken?" 

"Just wait and see," I boasted a bit on account 
of my abiding faith in old Duke. I don't know about 
the youngster handling them, but the old fellow will 
do it, as though born to the game." 

"Bet you he won't!" he retorted, exhibiting his 
old frailty, betting. Bob would bet on anything. 

34 



IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 

It was his single mania. Truly he refrained from 
risking money or even about making such a propo- 
sition, but he bet all hours of the day against any- 
thing that did not concur with his fancy, the stakes 
ranging from chewing gum to elaborate dinners, in 
proportion to his interest in the subject at issue. 

"Bet you Duke flushes the first five flocks of 
chickens," he resumed. "Cigars?" 

"Cigars go," I replied. "Why, this country is 
made to order for him, though it is in the miserable 
North!" 

My slighting allusion to the North only evoked a 
tolerant smile. Bob knew my fondness for the South, 
so when occasion arose he was equally adept in 
retort at my beloved Dixieland. But for once I was 
surprised that he made no adverse reference. Then 
I understood; I was the guest, and he regarded any 
comment on the land of my nativity would revive 
an unpleasant banter of words about localities which 
we had threshed out pretty thoroughly together 
during our summer fishing trip. 

That the first day of September could be so cold 
never entered my mind. But early in the morning 
after my arrival, while daylight only showed a mite 
of gray and crimson streamers in the east, I shivered 
on the rear seat of the spring wagon and vowed it 
would be my last trip North. Even the two dogs 
coiled up in their ample bed of straw at our feet 
found the change from midsummer temperature to 
that bordering frost very uncomfortable. Bob 
gazed down on me and laughed, but generously 

35 



JIST HUNTIN' 

contrived to give me the most of the old buffalo robe. 
The driver directed his team due north, pulled a 
blanket over his legs and dozed intermittently. At 
every lapse into wakefulness he plied the whip, and 
the two dun-colored ponies sped more briskly on 
their way. 

"Bet you you freeze to death before we ever get 
to the shooting grounds," Bob prophesied in a 
humorous tone, which could give no offense. 

"Chewing gum.^" I asked. 

"Just one package," Bob replied. 

Then suddenly the sun shot over the east sand 
ridges and bestowed a well appreciated warmth. 
There was not the frost I felt sure of, and soon I 
felt my blood tingling. Bob observed me with 
pleasure and nodded as though to say: "You win." 

After a long drive we arrived at a country of 
rolling prairie. The grass reminded me of my South- 
ern sedge, though shorter and tinged with a red 
color which the sun seemed to accentuate. There 
was a certain sameness to all that Platte River 
country which contrasted much with the lay of my 
homeland. 

Once more the driver awoke. I do not recall that 
I ever heard him speak. We got out the wagon and 
without command those two pointers jumped to 
the ground, shook themselves and, scanning the 
country with an appraising eye, raced out for the 
first swale, which was a half mile distant, before we had 
taken our guns from the cases and assembled them. 

With all the speed at the young dog's command, 

36 



IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 

old Duke was yet his master. I am sure the old 
rellow at last had found ideal conditions for his 
ability. Every censure I had made of his wide casts 
in the South in cane, cotton and corn, I forgot as 
simply with admiration I devoured his exhibition 
of speed, range and up-headed casts. 

"Well, that old fool, Duke, certainly can get over 
ground — and the youngster, too!" Bob grudgingly 
admitted in an exclamatory manner, "They are just 
like real chicken dogs. My, look at him swing for 
that swale of grass — by Jove, he's pointing!" 

The young dog was only a short way behind and, 
recognizing his elder companion's point, backed 
perfectly. 

"False point!" declared Bob. "Bet you cigars 
it is. No green dog could handle chickens that 
easily." 

"Cigars?" I asked. 

"Yep!" 

"Taken." 

Then we both walked fast to the pointing dogs. 
The Kansan's eagerness to get to them did not show 
doubt in Duke's correctness. But Duke had lived 
in the South, and Bob had to have his fling. 

Duke handled his first chickens with the skill of 
an old prairie campaigner. He was fastened to a 
big flock. When we came within twenty yards of 
the dog they flushed with a roar. Bob making a nice 
double, while I missed a left swinging bird. 

"You can't hit chickens and never will," Bob com- 
mented encouragingly. "I'll bet you " 

. 37 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Drop the bets for a while," I protested and let's 
get after the balance of the flock!" 

The long-legged one agreed. The young dog re- 
trieved both the birds. Duke bolted for a rise over 
which the chickens had just topped, stood still a 
moment, waiting until we showed a disposition to 
follow. Then he was again off with the youngster 
at his heels. 

"He's sure like an old chicken dog," Bob remarked. 
"See him mark 'em?" 

"Oh, he learned that on quails in the South!" 

"Quails, nothing! Say, if he hasn't nailed them 
again down in those sunflowers!" 

At quite a distance from where the first point had 
been made we discovered the two dogs on birds. 
For a long ways the country was level, and far off 
suddenly I perceived it stop against a line of cotton- 
woods and heavier cover, that my shooting mate 
advised me was a line of demarkation between the 
prairie and the North Platte River. 

Duke was too wide and speedy to give my young 
dog any opportunity to perform except in the 
secondary role of backing and retrieving. Midway 
between the cottonwoods the old dog had slipped 
into point on another flock. The youngster re- 
spected it well, and four birds were credited to our 
score. The balance of the flock made for the cotton- 
woods. Duke started again but crimped up within 
two hundred yards of us. The young dog had cast 
independently far to our right. Presently he saw 
his sire pointing and galloped in haste toward him 

38 



IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 

to share in the iind. But as he came within fifty 
yards of Duke, he ran right into the birds. They 
flushed before we were within shooting distance and, 
like the other flock, beat straight for the cotton- 
woods where they scattered in the cover. 

"That's my kind of game," I ejaculated. "Snap 
shooting is where I shine." 

Strangely Bob made no proposal to bet; he was 
too busy observing Duke and his erratic son work- 
ing toward the river. As the old dog drew near, 
we could see that where the birds dropped was cut 
off by a slough. Duke stepped mincingly into the 
water until he sank to his neck, then deliberately 
swam across. Prior to this always he had balked at 
water. The young dog refused to follow, running 
up and down the bank, giving occasional vent to 
his displeasure at the obstacle in a low, dismal whine. 

"There's a big cottonwood up to the left we can 
cross on," Bob announced with glee. "Then the 
kid will be able to cross, too. Just like a Southern 
dog, anyway, to hate water!" 

Hardly had he announced his opinion on dogs 
from Dixie when the youngster, overcoming his fear, 
plunged into the water and swam to where Duke 
had vanished in the cover. 

Just as the Kansan had predicted we found the 
log. He was the first to reach it. It was still damp 
from its sodden environments. Bob always was 
a hasty individual. He started to run across with 
all the supreme confidence of a tight wire artist. 
When in the middle all at once both his feet disen- 

39 



JIST HUNTIN' 

gaged themselves from the log and six feet-two of 
Kansas manhood dropped with a huge splash in 
the slough. 

When Bob climbed up on the bank, he resembled 
a huge wet greyhound. His vocabulary was pro- 
fusely profane. There was not a spot dry about 
him. I agreed to furnish him with shells until his 
were dry. He took all from his pocket and stacked 
them up to get the benefit of the sun's rays. We 
could pick them up on our return. Fortunately he 
had thought of his gun the first thing during his 
aerial flight and, holding it above his head, it re- 
mained his sole possession untouched by the cold 
water. For once Bob agreed with me and without 
betting. As there was no change of clothes available, 
the best thing for him to do was to keep in motion 
until the warmth of his body dried them out. He 
had no others in the wagon, which now was coming 
toward us and would await our return. 

Soon I realized we were on an island, containing 
every imaginable tantalizing growth. It was a case 
of fighting our way every step through young cot- 
tonwoods, willows, tangled sharp-pointed vines and 
weeds that were amazingly high. But the exercise 
did much toward warming the elongated Kansan, 
as well as reviving his spirits, for the cold plunge 
had momentarily made his teeth chatter and his 
speech incoherent. 

We had progressed for some distance through the 
barriers when again I heard from him, his old tend- 
ency having the upper hand. 

40 



IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 

"Where are those pointers?" he speculated, unable 
to see twenty feet either through or above the under- 
growth. 

"Don't know," was my response. "On point some- 
where, I guess." 

"Point, nothing," contradicted the tall one. 

"Can't be anywhere else," I suggested. 

"Can't, eh.?" Bob said gruffly. "When I took my 
morning bath we were so long getting started again 
they just went back to the wagon." 

"Duke go back to the wagon — not on your life!" 
My reply was prompt and tingling with sarcasm. 

"Well he has," insisted Bob. "The young one, 
too. Bet you a box of shells they've bolted." 

"Done!" I championed the old dog. "The young- 
ster might, but Duke — never! Let's look around 
this island before you become discouraged." 

For twenty minutes we hunted faithfully without 
finding the dogs. It was like hunting the proverbial 
needle in a hay stack. I was at the point of advis- 
ing the Kansan to return to the wagon when he 
stepped up on a huge Cottonwood log and scanned 
the island with considerable interest. 

"You win," suddenly Bob announced with a 
gleam of pleasure on his countenance. "They are 
both stuck on birds — about twenty yards apart and 
about a hundred yards to our left. Come here — see 
them in those tall weeds?" 

After a minute's scrutiny I was able to descry the 
two dogs. Except from an elevation I would never 
have been able to locate them. In all my days at 

41 



JIST HUNTIN' 

chicken hunting I was not treated to a more pleasing 
spectacle, nor did I ever see birds lie better. Ap- 
parently it was an area of refuge for every harrassed 
bird around there. Those birds remained still to 
the dogs' point, just like quails in timber, and bird 
after bird we killed when we had solved the diffi- 
culties of cover shooting. The number became 
such that we had to return to the wagon with our 
load. In that density of riotous growths it would 
have been hard to conceive how we would have 
found all our dead chickens, had it not been for the 
youngster's efficiency in retrieving. In this respect 
he surpassed his capable bird-finding sire. 

Bob's shells were dry when we left the island and 
returned to the wagon. He suffered no more in- 
convenience from wet clothes as the rough grueling 
in the cover had done its part. 

My memory is still fresh on the incidents of the 
day; the great work of the old dog whose powers 
of endurance were seemingly limitless. It was all 
a surpassing treat to me. The abundance of birds 
was far beyond my expectations, and the vastness 
of the open country strangely caused me to wonder 
if it ever had an ending. The youngster performed 
well, too, but his work lacked consistency and the 
spectacular attainment of the old-timer. 

The light of day gradually began to fade as we 
trudged wearily toward the wagon. The sun had 
dropped behind the distant elevations. The prairie 
grass had lost its frost-red coloration as approaching 
dusk overtook us. In a low swale I saw the old dog 

42 



IN THE CHICKEN COUNTRY 

wheel into point, advance, then stop again. I called 
Bob's attention to it. 

"It's sure a false point this time!" he explained. 
"See him nm — point — run — run and point. Sure 
it's a false point!" 

"False point, nothing!" with asperity I contra- 
dicted. "The old dog never false points!" 

"Of course it is," the tall one insisted. "I'll bet 
you—" 

"The best dinner in North Platte," I interposed, 
"that he's sure got a prairie chicken, if it is a cripple!" 

"Agreed!" declared the Kansan. 

In the darkness we both advanced to the dogs, 
whose antics continued discouragingly inexplicable. 
He continued to move up — stop — move up and stop. 
But we walked rapidly to him. 

Then I heard a whirr of wings as a bird rose and 
silhouetted to my left, hurtling for the distant river. 

"We both lose!" Bob shouted, as my little Ithaca 
knocked the bird down on the prairie. He beat the 
young dog to the bird and retrieved it. "We both 
lose," I heard him repeat as in the dim light he held 
the bird aloft. "We both bet on it being a chicken, 
didn't we.?" 

"Sure," I replied, puzzled at his question. 

As the Kansan came closer I heard him say again: 
"We both lose." 

"What — isn't it a chicken?" I asked expectantly. 

"Chicken nothing — it's a darn old Chink!" he 
shouted gleefully as he waved before my eyes a 
large ring neck hen pheasant. 

43 



V 
Hunting Squirrels with Mizzoura 

The further I proceeded into the hills the more ap- 
peal they had. It was the one place near civilization 
that had yet suffered none from modernity. Here 
and there I passed farms still in the throes of snaky 
rail fences, with the houses resting for sole support 
against giant rock chimneys that suggested comforts 
of big open fireplaces, where fathers and mothers 
gathered with their offspring and related tales so 
dear to childish ears. 

On I proceeded. The country assumed a rougher 
aspect. Hills succeeded hills, all apparently linked 
together in one chain of purple green hogbacks of 
transcending beauty. The way was up a hill, almost 
immediately down another, for I knew not the gaps 
nor the many passageways familiar to the natives. 

"Better stay awhile, stranger!" a voice hailed 
me from a small dwelling close to the road. Dark- 
ness was approaching fast. All the familiar 
drawl and nasal tone unmistakably stamped the 
owner of the voice as a native of the Ozarks. "Cum 
in 'nd make yourself at home," he invited, his voice 
ringing a welcome. "I reckon you'ns haint 'quainted 
'roun here, for hit's nigh three miles to the next 
house." 

"Well, if you will feed me and let me stay all night, 

44 



HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 

I will feel grateful," I replied, as I found the Ozarker 
at the gate and walked with him to the little two- 
room cabin, on the porch of which the owner re- 
lieved me of my packsack and rifle. 

"Step right in the house, stranger," he said. 
"Lizie, light the lamp, got a pill peddler agoin' to 
stay tonight!" 

Soon I was on a familiar footing with the entire 
Jabez Breathwaite family. There was quite a 
round of laughter occasioned when they learned 
my packsack did not contain anything in the phar- 
maceutical line. There was a boy about fifteen, 
rather a sleepy chap, they called him Lige. The 
wife, being kept in the background most of the time, 
I only knew her as angular, slim, swarthy and, like 
the boy, rather reticent in speech. Mizzoura, how- 
ever, with her father made up in talkativeness, for 
she was of free manner, possessed of great beauty, 
despite her coat of tan and her ten years. The other 
respected members of the family were two dogs, 
that stayed under the table and scratched indus- 
triously throughout the evening meal. 

Almost as soon as supper was over the children 
were sent to bed. The dogs remained in their same 
repose, and the wife, as before, made herself con- 
spicuous by her absence. 

"See that leetle yaller and black spotted dog? 
Wal, if yu'ns wants to hunt squirrels tomorrow, take 
him. They hain't nuther squirrel dog like him. 
I'll sell half a share in him and keep him here all the 
time for two dollars." This was Jabe's response to a 

45 



JIST HUNTIN' 

question T had asked about squirrel hunting, and 
the likelihood of buying or borrowing a dog for the 
purpose. 

"Your proposition looks good to me and T will 
right now become semi-proprietor," I said, hand- 
ing over the required sum of money and prof- 
fering an additional amount as payment for my 
stay. 

At the latter Jabe flushed red and refused to 
accept anything but the money for the dog, despite 
my pleadings to the contrary. But in the end he 
maneuvered to show another route by which I 
could pay my keep without violating native tradi- 
tions of hospitality. He brought forth a mail order 
catalog. As the wife immediately appeared, I de- 
ducted that it was her favorite literature. She must 
have continually feasted her eyes, as well as rested 
her finger on a certain page. It was dirtier than 
others and showed the ravages of much handling. 
But still the bonnet which was pointed out to me 
as the desirable one, remained a goodly illustration 
of how much in the way of feathers, strange crea- 
tures, fruits, flowers and ribbons could be deposited 
on a limited circumference and sold, express paid, 
for I2.89. 

"Hit's purty high in price, hain't hit.?" Mrs. 
Breathwaite felt me out expectantly. "But hit's 
shore a Pruasian style!" 

I did not know whether she referred to the famous 
French city or a part of Germany. But the instant 
I declared the bonnet a thing of beauty, to which 

46 



HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 

I added a solemn assurance that it would soon 
adorn her head, her brown visage softened and radi- 
ated ineffable contentment. Then, as further token 
of appreciation and at the solicitation of her mate, 
she sang until bedtime in an inimitable nasal of 
the exploits of her hero outlaw, Jesse James. 

Next morning it was with surprise that I received 
the news that Mizzoura would act as my guide. 
This was in response to my declaration that I was 
unfamiliar with the hills. 

The pink tint of the morning heightened the 
beauty of the little girl. Her hair hung down her 
back without reflecting other attention than straight 
combing. Her dress was of clean, dark calico. 
Though there had been frost, she wore neither shoes 
nor hat, and I marveled at her ability to ignore 
the inflictions of the sharp, small flint rocks. Her 
charm was in her natural conformity to environ- 
ment, her perfect confidence in herself and satis- 
faction with her conditions. 

"Why do we'uns call him Barlow?" she answered 
my question about the dog in the softest voice, 
" 'cause he's jist like a Barlow knife; sharp's can be. 
Hi on, Barlow, find sumthin'!" 

What Barlow did not know about fox squirrels 
was not worth knowing. He ranged out fast, like 
a wide-going bird dog, and soon disappeared on a 
ridge of postoaks and hickory. Presently I heard 
his chatter — then three, sharp staccato barks. 

"Treed !" shouted Mizzoura. "Whoopee ! Woopee ! 
Whoopee! Barlow, whoopee!" 

47 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Then dashing in the direction of the dog, Miz- 
zoura signaled me to follow at the same pace. 

"Are you sure the dog's treed?" I cried in hopes 
the hill girl would modify her pace. 

"Barlow never lies — he simply can't lie!" she 
flung back to me for an answer. 

We discovered the spotted dog vociferously pray- 
ing to some canine deity from the base of a large 
postoak. Frost had not yet stripped it of leaves. 
Nothing could we see. Barlow continued, however, 
in the same tonal striving. 

With the scrutiny of an expert, the girl cast her 
black eyes amidst the saffron leaves, searchingly. 
She drew back a distance, took a turn or two around 
the tree, then, shading her eyes from the glaring 
sun, she announced and beckoned to me: 

"There he is, a-layin on the first highest limb to 
the south." And, to aid, she pointed a well-formed, 
brown finger in that direction. 

At last I saw the little tree rat, and at the same 
time elevated myself in the guide's esteem by killing 
it at the first shot. 

"That's shore a hittin' leettle rifle, hain't hit," 
she remarked as she picked up the fallen game. 
"Killed it deader'n nit!" After which statement 
she resurrected a knife from her pocket, and pro- 
ceeding to disenbowel the animal, she presented the 
entrails to the dog. "That's for you, Barlow," she 
said. Then she cut a short, hickory limb, sharpened 
both ends and inserted it in an incision made near 
the hindlegs of the squirrel, a method much vogued 

48 




The Lure of the Outdoors 



HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 

in the hills for carrying them. As a final act she 
wiped the knife on some sedge grass. 

I had many shots. The little tree varmints were 
exceedingly plentiful. Mizzoura, however, proved 
more of an attraction for me than either the capable 
Barlow or the hunting. Her queer sayings were 
amusing, and she showed something that I had 
found lacking in all humans I had met heretofore. 
She was perfectly contented, and showed a charming 
independence and ability to care for herself. As an 
expert at turning squirrels for a gunner I never saw 
her equal. Though several times I tried to bring 
forth a longing for the outside world, I failed. She 
listened, showing interest in my tales, but never 
so much as uttered a comment. 

The performance of Barlow was beyond all my 
expectations. His knowledge of squirrels was simply 
marvelous. When in thickets the wily game leaped 
from tree to tree they were never able to throw him 
off. With almost uncanny precision he located them, 
never announcing until positive. 

In a very tall hickory that despite my expert's 
attempts to show me the game, I could see nothing. 
At last I said as she pointed aloft: 

"Mizzoura, I wish you could shoot." 

"Shoot, Mister, jist give me the chance!" Miz- 
zoura danced with joy as I entrusted my rifle to 
her outstretched hands. "Yu'ns git 'roun' on to 
her side. If the squirrel don't turn my way, take 

a stick 'nd scrape the tree with hit. Now do as I 

>> 
say. 

49 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Hurry 'roun', City Feller!" cried Mizzoura, 
backing off from the tree. "He's on your side, turn 
him!" 

The whine of a small load of nitro powder smote 
the clear mountain air. A squirrel thudded dead on 
the rocky soil. 

"Stay where yu'ns air!" commanded the child 
of the hills. "They's one — two more." 

Again twice the nitro whined — reports so close to- 
gether they were hardly distinguishable, but as proof 
two squirrels fell to the ground. 

"You are certainly a great little shot," I compli- 
mented. "You can beat me to pieces." 

"Oh, ennybody could shoot with this rifle!" 
Mizzoura declared. Then she disemboweled the 
squirrels and announced we had sufficient for the 
day. Again she took the rifle in her hands. "Why, 
if I had one like this, I'd — ruther have hit than 
Maw's bonnet, ennyday. Some day Pappay will 
get me one, if he sells that forty on Breshy crick." 

"You are not going to have to wait that long, 
Mizzoura," I replied, a surge of sudden affection 
for the hill girl taking hold of me. "It is yours right 
now and t want you to keep it." 

"Mine?" she exclaimed, unbelieving. "Oh, City 
Feller, Mister — Oh a trillion million thanks!" 

On the road home, while appraising our big kill 
of squirrels, I said: 

"Barlow's certainly a great little dog. I was lucky, 
indeed, in being able to buy half interest in him. 

"Did Pappy sell yu'ns half interest?" 

50 



HUNTING SQUIRRELS WITH MIZZOURA 

"Yes. Why?" 

"Yu'ns the tenth man," she said, her face scarlet 
with unapproval, "that bought a half intrust in 
Barlow from Pappy!" 

From then until our return home the hill girl was 
silent. The red in her face remained, and though her 
admiration for her rifle was undiminished — for she 
could never take her eyes from it — speech seemed 
to have deserted her. 

Several more hunts had we together. All of them 
I enjoyed much. Then at last came the time for 
my departure. I bade all good-bye except Mizzoura. 
Neither she nor Barlow were about. The silence of 
Jabe on the subject was inexplicable, so I shouldered 
my packsack and proceeded on my way. 

Down the road a mile from the house Mizzoura 
met me, suddenly appearing out of a thicket. She 
had a number of squirrels for me. She led Barlow 
unwillingly by a chain. Traces of recent tears were 
on her cheeks. 

"Mizzoura!" I exclaimed. "Why — Barlow on a 
chain — what's the matter.?" 

"Barlow's yourn, take him," she sobbed. "I made 
Pappy give him up to yu'ns. He won't never more 
have none of his intrust sold. Good-bye — old 
Barlow— Oh, Barlow!" 

Kneeling down I unsnapped the chain from Bar- 
low's little soft neck and deposited it in her hands. 
Barlow scampered off" into the woods. I took Miz- 
zoura in my arms for a moment and held her closely. 

I continued on my way. Mizzoura waved her 

51 



JIST HUNTIN' 

last good-bye from an eminence of flint rock. The 
pines and oaks whispered softly in the evening 
breeze. The pink tint of departing day seemed to 
enhance the beauty of the purple hogbacks. I 
was happy. I could still feel the moist impress 
of the little hill girl's kiss on my cheeks. 



52 



VI 
My Ducking Pond in the Hills 

Perhaps it is mere association that binds me so 
closely to the pond in the hills. Yet somehow the 
more I wander from it the greater its influence is 
felt. Then, too, I think I am confronted with the 
more pertinent realization that it is because it is 
mine to do with as I fancy. Though it scarcely 
covers an acreage over an acre, what a pond for ducks 
it is! They never come there in quantities; they are 
there only unexpectedly. But when they do arrive 
the shooting is of a character that tries out my 
ability to the utmost. 

As I reflect on this, I am sure it is one reason why 
I favor it above every ducking ground I have seen. 
My pond, however, is but a calm pool for livestock 
on top of a chain of hills. Hardly a frequenting 
place for wildfowl, I know you will exclaim with 
reason. But I am loyal to the little pond and can 
see no other in the same enticing light. 

Many times I have tried to put aside its influence 
and memories by visiting famous ducking grounds. 
When the shooting was over invariably my mind 
raced back to the little pond on top of the hill. 

As the pond became almost an obsession I thought 
the best curative was to visit other scenes, but the 
first thing on my return I had to see my little pond. 

S3 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Except as something sacred I never speak or 
contemplate my little pond. I dare not do other- 
wise. I am too cowardly and know that my con- 
science would reproach me. Sportsmen are so criti- 
cal that I am sure they would discover faults in my 
little friend. As for myself being able to discover 
any, never! 

Often tales of other fields have lured me to them 
and I visited solely for the great shooting. In this 
respect I was not disappointed. The ducks were 
there in unbelievable numbers and the vastness of 
the feeding grounds was beyond compare. Yet when 
the shooting was at its best that vagrant mind of 
mine wandered to the hills and visualized a small 
boy, creeping on hands and knees toward the little 
pond for a shot at his first duck. 

A friend insisted that among all my former shoot- 
ing I had tasted nothing of the real; shooting from 
a motor boat on the Mississippi was the sport un- 
approachable. I listened, longed, consented, I 
went. But after two hours murdering mallards and 
bluebills through this reprehensible method my 
little pond in the hills loomed in higher esteem, 
far above anything the day had shown, for it was 
there a small boy stopped his first green-headed 
drake. 

Came a friend who told me of the treats of roost 
shooting in the Black River swamps. The distance 
was not great from home, and his descriptive powers 
were so wonderful that before I realized the act I was 
enroute to the shooting grounds. 

54 



MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 

We rode out to his favorite roost as the sun fell 
behind the water oaks and cypress. There was still 
an impress of pink on the bank surroundings. The 
moon promised to give us more light. That I had 
ever fancied any similar scene I could not recall. 
We waded out almost to our waist in the water, into 
the middle of the only open spot in the timbered 
area. If I had conjectured before about roost shoot- 
ing, it had all been wrong. I knew nothing about it, 
of the opportunities for slaughter, or the certainty 
of violating every ethic of sportsmanship. 

Just as the last touch of pink merged with the 
blackness of the big woods, the ducks began to come 
in. My instructions were to shoot before they 
dropped below the big cypress trees, otherwise they 
would prove invisible. At first in pairs they arrived 
and, after a few preliminary efforts at circling, they 
pitched for the water. The only trial of marksman- 
ship required was to hold on the ducks before they 
dropped below the tree tops. In a little while it 
appeared as though every duck in creation had se- 
lected that round opening in the swamps for its 
roost. From pairs to thousands they piled in, de- 
termined to reach the roost irrespective of numbers 
or the presence of hunters. 

Until our guns were hot we shot. The noise of 
rustling pinions and calling wildfowl was beyond 
anything in the way of din that I had ever heard, 
and fools that we were, we bombarded them con- 
tinually. Ducks fell until we no longer thought of 
appraising the number. Others swam around us 

55 



JIST HUNTIN' 

totally oblivious of our presence or the roar of our 
guns. It was their chosen roost, and they were 
following an irrevocable rule of their tribe to remain 
where former days had proved it sacred! 

Soon our big supply of ammunition was exhausted 
and with the aid of flashlights we gathered our dead. 
Expecting quite a few, 1 was entirely unprepared 
for such a spectacle as our gRiesome butchery pre- 
sented. We had to leave ducks galore because we 
were unable to carry half of them away. My com- 
panion smiled contentment. In the glare of the 
electric light he looked at me, and seemingly con- 
strued my visage as radiating supreme pleasure. 
He was wrong! It was only my little pond once 
more invading my thoughts, for at that instant I 
was only making another scene live, for I was sure 
I experienced a far greater thrill when I stopped my 
first incomer, a canvasback, late one evening at my 
little pond in the hills. 

Later on I visited Big Lake and the adjacent 
great acreage of Little River's overflow in the Sunken 
Lands. There was an irresistible lure about it, 
gained from sportsmen's tales. Some previous con- 
ception I had of its potentials as a ducking ground. 
It could be nothing else; the immense inundation 
grown with yoncapin, saw grass, flag and smart- 
weed could serve no better purpose. Just glimpse 
at the forest of pinoaks skirting the shallows, could 
other estimate be gained.^ 

The native guide I picked up at Hornersville told 
me he was a hill man by birth and former residence. 

56 



MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 

Then I did not believe it. He answered all my 
questions with a resentful look and a sidelong glance 
at the town loafers, which obviously signified "City 
Dude!'' Our shallow-draft duck boat, filled with 
noisy live decoys, signified his desire for me to get 
in, pushing out into the overflow with a languid, 
noncommittal effort. It was with him a daily oc- 
cupation, and my inquiries, through stress of en- 
thusiasm at the surroundings, brought forth but 
two monosyllabic answers, "yes" and "no." 

Long before I got well into the ducking grounds 
I heard the staccato of the market hunters' guns. 
A battle with muskets at a distance might aptly 
convey the impression the constant shooting had on 
me, for nothing else could produce the same effect. 
Occasionally from somewhere out of the wild en- 
vironments a duck boat came into view, loaded to the 
gunwales with dead wildfowl ready for market. 
Frequently the live decoys rode on top the grue- 
some load, quacking vociferously as though taking 
great pride in their part of the achievement. So 
frequently I beheld this that soon it lacked the 
interest of surprise and only evoked my silent dis- 
approval. These, however, were perhaps only 
market hunters! Soon I would meet sportsmen and 
I was sure to leave with better ideals established in 
my mind. 

But in the great overflow caused by over a hundred 
years of inundation no one followed any other 
doctrine than kill, kill, kill all you can! The very 
sight of the interminable slaughter all around sick- 

57 



JIST HUNTIN' 

ened. There was a sameness about it that never 
relieved the monotony. Ever were the hunters in 
blinds, ever were heaps of Hve decoys close by, ever 
was the native's calling perfect. Flock after flock 
of ducks literally spewed out of the big areas of 
flanking timber and foolishly set sail for the living 
deceits, only to be received by death belching from 
every blind in a business-like manner, which formerly 
I had never regarded as possible. 

A few natives with laden duck boats laughed at 
the insignificant dozen on the floor of mine. I ex- 
pected more of sportsmen, but their guff^aws were 
louder and always tinged with the bite of ridicule. 
If I could have conceived some feasible course to 
turn the wildfowl from those death-dealing blinds 
I would have done so. 

I thought of the hills and my little pond. It had 
never experienced anything like this, and with the 
help of the deity it never would! 

My feelings must have become imparted in some 
manner to my guide. For the first time his expres- 
sion of indifference and sullenness relaxed into one 
bordering on amity when I told him I had enough 
ducks and I would derive more pleasure in going 
over the watery country than participating in the 
demise of more wildfowl. 

Something of the lure of the swamps seized me. 
I began to experience real enjoyment as we paddled 
through the narrow lanes of saw grass that always 
threatened to end, only to open into new water 
routes under the perfect manipulation of my guide's 

58 



MY DUCKING POND IN THE HILLS 

long paddle. The staccato of the gunners persisted, 
but seemed now not so fraught with slaughter as 
our distance from them increased. The stark, dank 
water-killed tupelo and cypress black from exposure, 
slime and moss-covered from time, stood out in 
strange contrast with the immense beds of tawny, 
frost-stricken vegetation. 

A promise or something worth seeing showed 
itself on the guide's grim visage as we worked through 
a forest of pinoaks only a foot deep with water, and 
finally emerged into an open area fringed with fat, 
red-seeded smart-weed. The sight was a surprise 
beyond expectation. It was impossible to see the 
water for the ducks in this one refuge considered 
sacred by the market hunters. Species mingled with 
species, and pintails, bluewings and other ducks that 
naturalists never associated together and were 
further on their year's Southern pilgrimage, swam, 
dived, tipped and uttered discordant sounds in close 
contiguity with mallards, redheads, scaups, wid- 
geons, broadbills and canvasbacks. 

The scene was far too much for my ability to 
describe. The shimmering of all colors in strange 
kaleidoscopic arrangement through their move- 
ments defied reproduction by pen or brush. We 
watched the crowded hole with enthusiastic en- 
joyment. Little did the ducks care for our presence, 
until the guide changed the spectacle into a storm 
of thundering, brilliant pinions when purposely he 
touched a lordly drake with his paddle. That 
started to empty the hole. But the ducks, soon 

59 



JIST HUNTIN' 

realizing there was nothing to fear from the visitors, 
returned. 

Dusk began to take hold of the swamps. The 
staccato of the pump guns increased as the glow of 
evening fell upon the placid inundation. We 
pushed on to the dock. Already a number of sports- 
men had arrived. Ten duck boats were being un- 
loaded of their weight of dead wildfowl. The hunters 
regarded me with amusement as they viewed my 
small kill. 

But my guide shot back a glance of resentment 
at them while he tied my ducks together with a 
leather wood thong for easy carriage. Then he 
turned his attentions to me, staring as though 
puzzled considerably. A light of understanding 
showed on his tanned countenance. He extended his 
hand and I felt it close on mine in a warm clasp as 
though under the influence of a sudden access of 
afl^ection. 

For some time he retained my hand in his, his 
eyes turned in the direction of the western hill coun- 
try. At that instant I knew that he, too, was think- 
ing of some little pond in the hills! 



60 



VII 
After Canadian Honkers 

Long before I should have discontinued the jour- 
ney to the goose country had it not been for the 
urgings of Bob. The swamper swore by all the most 
formidable oaths of his kind that our trip quickly 
would terminate in a wheat-growing section where 
geese were in numbers beyond anything ever I had 
fancied. But in the flooded woodlands of big oaks, 
tall solemn-looking cypress and strange truncated 
bodies of tupelo gum, it seemed only a dank, somber, 
perpetual stretch of timbered swamp that forced 
me to the conclusion that either Bob had lost his 
way or his goose country was as remote as the other 
end of the rainbow. 

Still we pushed on, until I began to marvel at the 
staunchness and versatility of our Kennebec canoe. 
In a manner it switched my mind from constantly 
doubting Bob's promised land, and helped some to 
relieve the monotony of the long swamp trip. That 
it performed miracles would be only hinting mildly 
at its innumerable achievements in the Little River 
Overflow. Loaded down with eight hundred pounds 
of outfit, it did everything expected and many un- 
expected things under the ministrations of our 
paddles, except to sufl"er a puncture from contact 

6i 



JIST HUNTIN' 

with the ever-menacing cypress knees, that were 
scarcely discernible in the dirty water. 

After a time, from the manner in which the little 
craft passed over the obstacles, I began to believe 
it sensed them in advance. For from them I had 
real cause for anxiety; were our craft once wounded 
in that immense inundation of the scatters of 
Little River, it portended the loss of our outfit at 
the least. We could never have carried it to land, 
as at times we were miles away from terra firma. 

"She actually jumps logs and cypress knees!" 
explained Bob optimistically. "If she did'nt, we 
never would have cum through the last cypress 
brake." 

"That's about the right explanation. Bob," I con- 
curred, "otherwise we would have been drowned 
in these unending swamps." 

"Hain't no end — ain't they .^" Bob retorted warmly. 
"Before sundown we'll be right in the goose country." 

"That's to be seen," I murmured, without con- 
fidence in the swamper's declaration. 

"Nevertheless hit's shore true!" the big, sandy- 
haired man insisted. "Looks long to you, because 
the swamps are flooded and you cain't tell where 
the river is. But I know we ain't far off. We're 
just getting into Nigger Wool Swamps and before 
night we'll be settled in camp on high ground, where 
we can crack down on some of them honkers." 

"Nigger Wool Swamps?" 

"Yep. Look ahead. See all them vines twined 
around everything?" 

62 



AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 

"Yes." 

"That's why hit's called Nigger Wool," Bob ex- 
plained, while he cast an affectionate look on the 
perspective. "Them vines is around everything. 
Looks to you like we'd never get through. But she'll 
make it, alright. I'm glad now the swamps are 

"Why.?" promptly I asked. 

"Well, right now Castor and Little Rivers meet 
in one whoppin' big flood. By keeping up through 
Nigger Wool in the woods we miss all the current 
and that dam near the big saw mill. This little 
log jumper that we are in so far has done so well 
she sure is going to end our paddling soon." 

"If we were only duck shooting!" I exclaimed at 
the sight of the thousands of mallards spewing out 
of the beds of smart-weed and yoncapin. 

"But, as we hain't, just keep a paddling," the 
sandy-haired one remarked, his big blue eyes actu- 
ally laughing at my anxiety," 'till we gets this brush, 
log and cypress knee wrecker out of these swamps." 

How that swamper could tell directions it is be- 
yond my ability to explain so much as the deport- 
ment of that sturdy canoe. But he always knew his 
route. In the tangle of Nigger Wool it was im- 
possible to see twenty feet ahead. I believed with 
every stroke of my paddle amidst tall rushes and 
russet-colored meadows of frost-killed saw grass 
that the route would terminate suddenly. Bob sat 
back in the canoe, laconically commenting on the 
surroundings, still paddling swiftly and invari- 

63 



JIST HUNTIN' 

ably guiding the craft into some concealed egress, 
a water route that none but a born swamper knew 
existed. 

Three hours more of the same kind of paddling, 
then I saw light appear through the big overcup 
oaks in the east which promised our early advent into 
open country. We put more effort to our work, and 
all at once Bob gave forth a gleeful exclamation as 
he gazed in the same direction. Presently he pointed 
to a bank-full drainage ditch which emptied into 
the swamps, and directed our craft there. We fol- 
lowed in its course until two hours before sunset. 

We camped on the high bank of the ditch between 
two wheat fields. Through a belt of intervening 
timber there was presented an unobstructed view 
of the Mississippi for some distance. The vast ex- 
panse of water was at flood stage. 

"Lord, man, look at them!" cried Bob, his eyes 
scanning skyward to the north as the well-known 
sounds of geese in flight carried to our ears. "Three 
whopping big flocks, one after the other!" 

Three big flocks of geese were passing low, flying 
slowly. Then we observed them wheel, chattering 
quaintly as they finally dropped into the young 
wheat about a half mile to the north. And flock 
after flock followed these, all coming from the direc- 
tion of the Mississippi. These dropped into the 
wheat without any perfunctory circling. 

"They seem to know their feeding ground, Bob, 
don't they?" I declared. "I think I'll drop over 
and get a few before supper." 

64 



AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 

Bob slapped both knees in a recumbent position 
and laughed heartily. 

"Yu'd never get one in all this world," he said. 
"Get up on this ditch bank. See that patch of 
moving gray over yonder. There's no less than a 
thousand geese, and yet you couldn't get within 
shooting range of them to save your life." 

"Couldn't L? Why.?" 

" 'Cause they's too wise. No geese tonight unless 
you picks one accidently coming too close to camp. 
But tomorrow — !" 

"Yes — go on, Bob — tomorrow,?" 

"Why, we'll pit. And right now I'm going to 
paddle up this ditch to the Barry farm and borrow 
them tame honkers of his'n, if for once only you'll 
do the cooking of supper." 

At no time during the night was I able to sleep 
long. Out in the wheat fields the geese chattered 
incessantly, and the answering of the talkative ten 
that Bob borrowed and coralled in a willow-stalked 
circle was none the less noisy. 

Before sunrise when Bob awoke a strong wind 
blew from the north. He loaded the decoys in the 
canoe and paddled up the ditch while it was still 
very dark. Only then he informed me that we were 
enroute for a bar in the Mississippi, from which we 
would shoot geese as they returned from the wheat 
fields in the morning. But he had reckoned without 
a prior knowledge of the big river's condition. Dark 
as it was, we realized by the force of the current its 
high stage the moment the bow of the canoe hit it. 

65 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Waves pounded at the staunch little craft, but we 
kept on the route Bob directed without capsizing; 
for the swamper's eyes seemed able to penetrate 
the darkness without trouble. But our steady, 
grueling work proved futile. The river was higher 
than Bob had considered possible, and the bars he 
had reckoned on were under water. 

"But there's the wheat yet. Hillbilly!" Bob ex- 
claimed, still enthused at the prospects for the sport. 
"When the sun passes through that tall brake in the 
cypress, we'll have shooting right near camp." 

"I am not a bit doubtful about having any shoot- 
ing," I answered cheerily. "With all the geese making 
in and out of those wheat fields, we can't help getting 
some with those decoys. Then there's that little 
hen there that simply can't quit talking." 

Of all the talkative creatures on earth this hen 
was the greatest. I learned to appreciate her that 
day from the pit we selected in the middle of a big 
wheat field. But after a second glance she did not 
appear quite so diminutive. Only in height she 
differed from her associates. Both of her legs had 
been broken, which subsequently effected the short- 
ening of the members. 

Bob pointed toward the East and commanded 
silence. I saw a big flock coming from the Mis- 
sissippi. At the same time the hen began to talk 
inviting goose language rapidly. She simply 

screamed to her wild kind, in her earnestness to 
attract their attention, and the balance of the decoys 
finally joined in the clamor. 

66 



AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 

Straight for our pit came the geese. I had not 
asked advice of Bob. The big birds swung a little 
to our left out of range, then wheeled like well- 
drilled soldiers and came past the blind. What 
sluggish flyers and how close! Then I fired my right 
barrel at the leader and the left at one close to it. 

"Well, of all the durned fools!" Bob cried, red- 
faced, as he witnessed my clean double miss. "Why 
don't you wait until they get in range.'' Them birds 
were ninety yards away." 

"Why, Bob, those birds were so close and flying 
so slow — " 

"That will do from you," he rebuked rather with 
kindness than in tone of severity. "Next time you 
shoot wait until you can see the white patch on 
their throats; and no matter how slow them big fellows 
seems to fly, you hold just ahead of them as you 
would on mallards. Look!" 

Another flock shot in from over the timber line. 
Then the hen and her companions did their part 
efi^ectively. With patience gained from observing 
the swamper, I waited. The flock wheeled, then 
swung, like the first. The flapping of pinions was 
almost deafening. Presently came into visibility 
the white patch on their throats. I led them as Bob 
had directed. 

Simultaneously four geese changed ends and fell 
crashing on the young, green wheat. Gleefully I 
started out of the pit to retrieve them. 

"Stick in the pit!" Bob commanded. "Here comes 
another bunch!" 

67 



JlSr HUNTIN' 

Instantly I dropped back to my former prone 
position. This time we brought three big birds to 
the ground. 

About every fifteen minutes a flock came to us, 
some yielding to the lure of the decoys and others 
passed by without response, though that little hen 
tried mightily for all. A lone snow goose raced down 
from the north. Seeing our decoys, it started at 
once to lower in flight. But, suddenly becoming 
suspicious as it arrived above our pit, hurriedly it 
started to climb that invisible ladder, a feat in which 
all wild fowl are so well accomplished. 

"Try for that white rascal — both of us!" 

As quickly as Bob uttered the words I pulled both 
triggers of my gun. The firing of our two guns 
seemed so close that it apparently merged into one 
report. The big white goose stopped its flight in 
midair and fell dead not fifteen feet away from the 
blind. 

"We sure crimped him!" was Bob's well-pleased 
cry. "We worked the double slam proper on him!" 

"Double slam don't go this time," I said with a 
smile, as I opened my gun to reload for the next 
goose and saw no empty shells. "You did all the 
slamming. Old Timer; for once I got excited and 
failed to load my gun." 

We encountered the usual lull in goose shooting, 
but in my mind our kill so far fully recompensed us 
for our long trip. Then occurred a happening which 
terminated our sport. Bob espied two incomers, 
bent straight for our pit, and flying very low. 

68 



AFTER CANADIAN HONKERS 

"Let's crumple up them incomers," Bob sug- 
gested. 

Naturally at once we were on the alert. The two 
geese maintained their course. A hundred yards. 
Then fifty. We both fired. 

The momentum of Bob's goose carried it past 
our place of concealment, where it collapsed like an 
expanded projectile from a big cannon, right on the 
back of the talkative hen. It knocked her flat on 
the ground. My first thought was that she was only 
stunned. But, as she remained motionless. Bob 
jumped out of the pit and started to her. 

"There's another bunch coming — get back. Bob!" 
I cried. 

But the swamper only hurried on until he came to 
the hen. He took her up in his arms. 

"Come back to the pit!" vehemently I repeated. 

Bob made no answer. 

I turned my eyes from him and watched the geese 
fly to the west, where banding- the horizon as the 
sun dipped behind the silhouetted cypress and gums, 
was a long smear of vermilion. Quickly I turned 
pleadingly to Bob. I called twice. Then I knew the 
sport had ended for the day, though he made no 
reply. I saw a tear drop from his big honest eyes on 
the back of his little favorite goose. 



69 



VIII 
In the Lair of the Small- Mouths 

"That old timer seemed to know his subject," 
for the fifteenth time I remarked to myself. Then 
I counted on my fingers: "One, rattlesnakes; two, 
copperheads; three, cotton-mouths — our true moc- 
casins. Those are the only poisonous snakes we 
have in the Ozark Mountains. For heaven's sake, 
why do I continue to dwell so long on that snake- 
hunter's lecture?" 

The evening before my visit to the stream, while 
waiting for the delayed logging train in a small 
village, I stumbled into the town hall in an effort to 
discover a hotel and listened for two hours to an 
itinerant, tall, slender, bewhiskered old man 
in his strong Ozark intoning tell all he seemed to 
know about the poisonous reptiles in the hill coun- 
try. But why should it all persist in my thoughts, 
I could not explain. But it did, as all the way to 
the stream on this glorious morning my mind 
centered on the old man and his discourse. 

Gai.ning the foot of the last hill I had to achieve, 
the chant of the dashing river carried luring music 
to my ears, and a moment later the incense of a 
spring-nurtured swift waterway so intoxicated this 
earnest disciple of the divine Sir Izaak that the old 
man and his snakes were obliterated in my antici- 

70 



IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 

pations of the day's sport with those famous Ozark 
red-eyes. 

Every year since I had first held a fly rod in my 
hand I had obeyed the call of the stream. It would 
have been sacrilegious on my part to have done other- 
wise, so accustomed had I become to my annual 
pilgrimage after small-mouth bass. And in my mind 
this river held charms above others within my knowl- 
edge, for not only the fishing was beyond criticism 
but at each of its innumerable bends it unfolded 
scene treats altogether unlike any of the many pre- 
ceding ones. Cramped between pine-topped, rock- 
ribbed, massive altitudes the stream apparently 
fretted continuously over its imprisonment. And 
it was a river of speed, everywhere in a hurry, and 
every mile or so it fruitlessly attempted to rip a 
course through the solid flint rock bluffs. 

Quickly assembling my five-ounce split bamboo 
fly rod the instant I arrived at the water's edge, I 
considered a moment my selection of feathered de- 
ceits. Why should I even hesitate? Each year the 
first day of June I have invariably dressed the leader 
with two Babcock flies. And reminiscent thought 
proved the acceptable urge again. They had acted as 
killers before, tied on No. 4 hooks. And yet some 
laughed at my adherence to small hooks, but there 
is something of the ethical due to the brilliant war- 
riors of the swift waterways and I pursued my old 
manner of obeying its dictates. 

"Ugh!" I shuddered, as stepping toward the water 
while in the act of stripping a small part of the 

71 



JIST HUNTIN' 

line, a lazy frog-fat, rusty-black cotton-mouth 
slipped off leisurely from a rotten birch log and 
disappeared in the clear water. 

This was not an unusual spectacle. For every 
spring snakes were plentiful. 

Always from where I stood I began working down- 
stream. If that racing chute had ever failed to 
produce fish — and whopping ones, too — I could not 
recall the time. But, like all good things, it had its 
exactions. Here the river suddenly narrowed be- 
tween steep red gravel banks that topped the herb- 
age of the forest. The depth of the water was great 
— no less in any place than twenty feet for the entire 
length, which was no less than a half mile. I had, 
however, discovered that it was feasible to fish it. 
After careful observation I had found that there was 
a foot-wide ledge of rock covered by a foot or two 
of water, that projected along the east bank. By 
careful attention to how I placed my feet I had been 
able to fish it during normal stages. Once the ven- 
ture was made there was no turning back, for an 
angler had to continue downstream until the ter- 
mination of the chute. 

For the very reason of its dangers the greater 
were the charms for the angler. And on this day 
its promises in the way of bass immediately began 
to be fulfilled. I landed four scrappy bronze backs 
before I had proceeded a hundred yards. 

Then that snake subject came up again. Con- 
ditions were no different than other years. Every 
fifty yards or so a sunning cotton-mouth plunged 

72 




The Lair of the Small Mouths 



IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 

from the bank into the water the instant the crea- 
ture was apprised of my nearness. 

"One, two," I counted aloud. "Were there not 
more snakes than usual this year?" And talking at 
the top of my voice was an old habit I had acquired 
in the wilderness country. 

And just at that instant the old hillbilly professor 
and his lecture came to mind. I tried to cast the 
subject from me, but I could not. 

Having progressed about three hundred yards 
with splendid success, the growing weight of the 
creel began to press. The space of the underfooting 
diminished appreciably. Every ten feet I reached 
up with my left hand, while retaining the rod in my 
right, I grasped a projecting limb or clump of grass to 
steady my legs. 

Presently the ledge narrowed to no more than six 
inches of slime-slippery rock. I grabbed without 
looking for support. All at once as I touched a clump 
of grass I felt as though two red-hot needles had 
been suddenly thrust into the back of my hand and 
as quickly withdrawn. Then to my horror right 
from the grass and twining vines a monster moccasin 
flung himself from the bank, just brushing my 
back with the repulsive body before he gained the 
stream. 

"My God!" I gasped, trembling with appre- 
hension. 

In a moment I gained firmer footing. During 
that brief time a thousand thoughts came to mind. 
I had become a coward. I did not dare to examine 

73 



JIST HUNTIN' 

my hand, for I knew it only had a tale of death to 
tell. My eyes welled with tears. Then at last I 
drew my hand from the bank and cast a furtive 
glance at the offending member. Two small blood- 
spurting pricks about an inch apart on the back of 
my hand confirmed a happening which I tried not 
to believe. The aim of the devilish moccasin had 
been only too accurate. 

For a brief spell I paused, my entire being atremble 
with icy fear as the smarting* pain announced my 
terrible predicament. The first question that came 
was. How long would I live? 

And then the old hillbilly's words interposed: 
"After the bite of a cotton-mouth a man can live 
over two hours without medical attention!" 

"Two hours!" I exclaimed, again regarding the 
unmistakable imprint of the snake. "Two hours 
without medical attention, and it is ten miles over 
the roughest hills to the nearest farm I What chance 
was there for me?" 

"None!" I admitted. 

Trembling from the unusual seizure of fear, I 
determined at all hazards to keep on downstream 
until I had passed the confines of the chute, then 
hasten across the pine hills in the vain hope of find- 
ing some native's cabin. 

But, at the realization of my predicament, sud- 
denly anger had the upperhand. One plan I would 
follow to the last — I would cheat death somehow, 
I sneered: 

"What an ideal place for the death of an angler! 

74 



IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 

A long sleep — forever in the bosom of the wilder- 

>> 
ness. 

Presently my anger subsided under the influence 
of saner contemplation. My case was hopeless. 
I could feel the gasp of death almost on me. If I 
could only achieve the passage of the chute. Hope 
— perhaps? At least I could do no more than try. 
But in my terror my legs almost lost their strength. 
Several times I thought I would surely fall into the 
mad stream as my numbing hand seemed to have no 
more power to steady my meager progress. Death 
trailed every inch of my advance, I imagined. I 
stared at the river, speculating. By the snake or 
the river — which? 

The river tempted. 

With despair uppermost I released my hold and 
started to raise both hands aloft for the fatal plunge. 
All at once my eyes nearly bursted from their sock- 
ets. A sudden tug on my rod hand came near pre- 
cipitating me prematurely in the stream. I looked 
across the chute. A bolt of shimmering, polished 
bronze flashed for a part of a second over the water, 
and I beheld a monster small-mouth bass bore for 
the depths of the river with my fly in its mouth. 

Once more the lust of the angler prevailed. My 
last fish, I reflected. I would give him battle. One 
false step in the maneuvering signified death by 
water. What a fitting scene for a master artist! 
The setting of pines in mist-purple hills. A 
raging stream of silver spray. The subject — the man 
or the fish? 

75 



JIST HUNTIN' 

I strove to check that fighting monster fish with 
all the skill at my command, but I failed to turn 
him. Beads of warm perspiration replaced the cold 
moistness of fear. Such a bass! Only once in an 
angler's lifetime does as great an opportunity pre- 
sent itself. 

Cautiously giving line and recovering it at rare 
intervals, I gradually worked downstream, all the 
while the big fellow performing spiral subaqueous 
plunges and spectacular aerial flights with unbe- 
lievable rapidity. I fought, taking neither account 
of time nor distance — only the dangerous under- 
footing — until I sensed gravel under my feet. I had 
passed unscathed through the perilous chute and 
now was at the head of a raging shoal with all the 
needed fighting room. 

Up and down the shoal I engaged the militant 
red-eye, until my waning strength urged me to give 
up the battle. But all at once I experienced an 
appreciable gain in line. I reeled it in rapidly. 

After a time the big fellow's circles narrowed much; 
the leaps were shorter and less frequent. But still 
we fought on, until gaining a placid pool of back- 
water, exhausted, I coaxed into my landing net 
the largest small-mouth bass I had ever beheld. 

Again fear prevailed just as prematurely I started 
to gloat over my conquest. Now my reproachful 
eyes sought my hand. I stared hard, stared again 
where the water had washed the wound, and brought 
it so close as powers of vision would permit. Not 
the slightest swelling had ensued. Strange! Scruti- 

76 



IN THE LAIR OF THE SMALL-MOUTHS 

nizing closely the two minute punctures, I leaped 
in the fullness of my joy and gave forth whoop after 
whoop that carried far into the wilderness country. 
Then I stood, laughed, and with my knife brought 
forth two tiny spines of green briar. 

Turning to the fish which I had left gasping on 
the gravel bar, for I could never hope to place such 
a monster in my creel, I appreciated fully his mas- 
sive proportions. Again my vision shifted to my 
hand, then to the conquered warrior. Stopping I 
took hold of my prize and held him aloft in silent 
wonderment of his size and beauty. He still kicked 
bravely. Immediately I strode to the stream and 
placed him tenderly in the water. 

At first the big fish swam slowly and akwardly 
until he reached midstream. There he gained speed 
and suddenly disappeared in the deep water. 



77 



IX 

"Jist 'Possums" 

"Hi, Jack!" The call arose from the valley and 
then repeated more shrilly, "Hi, J-a-c-k!" 

"That's John Wilson," declared Jay, standing on 
the porch, "he's calling his famous 'possum dog. 
Let's go 'possum hunting tonight. Doc? John 
promised to take us." 

"Oh, I'm t-o-o tired," yawned Doc, who liked 
eating and sleeping after quail hunting more than 
anything else. 

"Oh, come on. Doc; I'm going to call John. To- 
morrow is our last day here," said the wiry little 
Jay, "and before my return East I am bound to 
have a 'possum hunt." 

At last Doc agreed, and I did likewise. And a 
moment later John Wilson appeared, accompanied 
by his son Willie and a diminutive black dog bearing 
the name of Jack. Wilson was not the best type of 
hill manhood. He was rather a modified type in- 
stead, of olive complexion, quite slim, and his hair 
was the color and texture of an Indian's. His in- 
evitable companion, his son Willie, had eyes of such 
faded blue that it took a third conjecture to confirm 
their color. He was about twelve years old, with 
hair like yellow rope. Like his father, he placed no 
great importance on dress. All his clothes seemed 

78 



"JIST 'POSSUMS" 

eternally on the point of disclosing the garb in which 
he entered this world. 

"Poppy," exclaimed Willie, that night looking 
with contempt on my old reliable black hound, 
Buster, "thar's gwine to be fun tonight; Jack'll 
run that ole black hound to death 'nd won't let him 
find nary a 'possum!" 

"Now y'air a-talkin, Willie," giggled the admiring 
parent. "Hadn't we'uns better git started now?" 

The supremacy of Jack over any dog in existence 
long ago had been established in the minds of the 
two native hunters. To us they spoke little, but 
prattled continually to themselves, the sole subject 
being the remarkable Jack. 

We crossed a field, then came into a lengthy 
thicket of second growths. Already Buster was 
scouting for game. Jack kept industriously at heel 
until we reached the thicket and, at the sight of the 
largest tree, without further ado he bayed with all 
his might. 

" 'Possum!" cried John. 

" 'Possum," repeated Willie. "Jack's shore got 
one! 

With our flashlights we shone the tree all over, 
but were unable to get sight of any eyes. Buster 
arrived, heard the little dog, smelt the tree know- 
ingly, then trotted off. Jack persisted. John re- 
flected a sickly attempt at a smile. Willie blamed 
Buster. 

Finally Jack seemed to tire of the tree, left it 
without instructions from his masters and imme- 

79 



JIST HUNTIN' 

diately bestowed his attentions similarly on an- 
other. 

"Nuther 'possum!" cried John excitedly. 

"Nuther 'possum!" echoed Willie. "Jack's shore 
got one!" 

Though the famous little Jack treed five times in 
succession, like his first, no 'possum could we find, 
notwithstanding that our searchlight played dili- 
gently every limb. 

On leaving the fifth tree at a distance we heard 
Buster bay dolefully three times. Doc, Jay and I 
agreed simultaneously that Buster had something. 
John and Willie obdurately denied the possibility 
of the big fellow finding anything, but they guided 
us to the tree. Buster bayed at intervals. We 
discovered him beneath a small elm. The moment 
the light was shone upward it revealed two small 
balls of fire. Jack chattered in all the dog language 
at his command. 

" 'Possum!" John cried once more. 

"Jack's shore treed a 'possum this time!" added 
Willie. "If we'uns hadn't taken Jack along that 
ole black houn' never wud found nothin'." 

The older native climbed the tree, soon returning 
to terra firma holding a small marsupial by the tail. 
There was the joy of accomplishment in his eyes, 
as well as those of Willie. To show his sportsman- 
ship he decided to free the 'possum for another race 
with the dog or dogs. He placed it on the ground. 

That animal had great objections to any sort of 
race, though Willie's renowned black kept at a safe 

80 



"JIST 'POSSUMS" 

distance. Though the father prodded the 'possum 
with a stick, he could induce it to no other effort 
than to remain coiled as though dead. Finally, 
agreeing that the 'possum had no desire to compete 
with the dogs, John deposited it in a coarse sack and 
the dogs went in search of more game. 

Obviously little Jack had obsessions which 
tempted him into prevarications. He barked at 
every tree, showing as much evidence of faith in 
his findings as on his first announcement. Not once 
did his notes prove truthful. Buster found five, 
none of which would race after capture, despite John 
Wilson's liberal applications of a switch on their 
shoulders. Both he and Willie, however, credited 
Jack with all the game and seldom acknowledged 
Buster's presence. 

"S-o-m-e s-p-o-r-t," Doc sleepily confessed. 

"You are right. Doc," at last agreed Jay. "Let's 
turn in." This was the first time I had ever noted 
the little Easterner having enough of any sport in 
so short a time. 

It was at the moment when the unreliable Jack had 
lied at the fiftieth tree— or perhaps it was the sixtieth 
— that Buster sounded the loud notes of a strike 
dog registering a find. Almost at the same instant 
hot scent was recorded, and old Buster's clarion 
notes rang clearly across the hills. 

This awakened Doc. 

"My!" he cried, "old Buster's sure got a voice. 
Darned if it isn't a sight race now, and whatever 
he is after, he's going some. Red fox!" 

8i 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Can't be, Doc," I gave my opinion, "they are 
going straight for the bottoms, and they have never 
taken a hill in the circles. It's a coon; that's what 
it is. It's a coon!" 

"Coon!" echoed John Wilson. 

"Coon!" chorused Willie, as he noticed Jack's 
chatter a mile in the rear. "Jack's a-givin' him hell, 
Pappy! He's shore rimnin' Buster to death!" 

If Jack was running the big hound to death, the 
trail must have led backward, for he never was within 
hearing distance of the hound. It had, however, 
developed into a sight race; quick, gasping, half- 
complete notes came from the ever-driving dog. 
Nothing could stay on the ground at such speed 
much longer. This proved to be true, for suddenly 
Buster's quick tonguing desisted, then three clear, 
sonorous notes sounded back in our direction. 

"Treed, down in the Lowry bottoms!" exclaimed 
John. 

"Treed!" Willie joined in, "Jack's made him take 
one of the big hollow sycamores." 

Willie was correct. The coon was up a sycamore. 
At once the light proved this, as well as that it was 
a monster coon. As firearms had been forbidden 
we had only one thing to do, cut down the tree. It 
was too large to climb. John and I took turns with 
the axe. Buster continued to express vocally his 
interest in the tree, while Jack raced around, bark- 
ing like mad from Willie's incessant encouragement, 
"kill him. Jack. Tear him to pieces. Jack!" 

When that tree hit the ground, Jack yelped with 

82 



"JIST 'POSSUMS" 

fright and knocked Willie to the ground in his 
desperate attempt to get away, finally disappearing 
for the time being in the brush. That tree held 
terrors for the little dog which even his admirers 
would not notice. 

A desperate battle ensued between Buster and 
the big coon. For a while in the darkness it was 
hard to tell which stood the best chance of emerging 
victor. But the old timer had had many years ex- 
perience in coon fighting and finally killed the game 
animal, not before it had put up a terrific battle 
and left its marks on the hound. Its coat was of 
such splendid texture that we presented it to Jay, 
and several silver coins to the owners of Jack. 

It was past midnight when we returned home. 
We found Jack reposing comfortably on the porch. 
Doc was too sleepy for utterance. Jay's time was 
taken in admiration of the kill, but its actual size 
was only realized as I opened the kitchen door and 
turned up the light. John and his son started for 
the valley. I went to the porch to listen to some 
note from Buster who had not returned. 

"Come out here. Jay, and listen," I called. 

"That's shore a lot of money, Willie," I heard 
John say as he doubtless examined his stock of 
money. 

"That's right. Pappy," replied a voice which I 
recognized as Willie's, "but we'uns never would 
a-had hit if Jack hadn't whipped h — 11 outen that 
coon for Buster!" 



83 



X 

With White River Elk 

The only thing of a humorous nature that hap- 
pened in the White River country came in the way 
of a misadventure to our host, the peppery Major. 
In his well meaning efforts to provide the Governor's 
party with some of the beverage that made Mil- 
waukee famous he had it brought over the mountains 
on pack horses. Furthermore, realizing that thirsty 
throats led to temptation, he hid it outdoors away 
from the guides and wranglers in a discarded bath 
tub filled with water. During the night the weather 
suddenly turned cold. The temperature fell to 
within a few degrees of zero. 

On the following days the little Major was posi- 
tively speechless with rage. By building a fire un- 
derneath the tub he tried to thaw out its contents. 
Others have tried the same process unsuccessfully 
in thawing out beer bottles. But the Major could 
see neither the humorous side nor reap comfort from 
scientific explanation. He blamed it all on the 
presence of the guides and wranglers, and seemingly 
derived some satisfaction from discharging the entire 
outfit. 

This only left the Major and I for guides and 
general factotums in the vast hill country. Then, 
too, there were the guests to appease, no little matter, 

84 



WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 

I reflected, for I was well aware of the Major's 
shortcomings in hunting. His knowledge of the 
environing mountains was only limited and his in- 
clinations never prompted him farther than a short 
walk from his ranch. No one knew why he had 
isolated himself there, why he had such a tremendous 
collection of guns, or why always he carried one. 
No resident had ever seen him shoot or in possession 
of game that he had killed, but his stock of hunting 
tales concerning his own accomplishments surpassed 
anything of a modern baron of the type made famous 
by Cervantes. 

The Governor's recital of the first day with the 
Major showed keen disappointment. He doubted 
the Major's ability as a hunter — at least his modes 
did not comply with his own as he said the little 
man paid not the slightest attention to wind, cover, 
nor the habits of game. Though disgust showed 
uppermost in the Governor's speech, finally he com- 
plimented the Major on one gift. No matter where 
he went, when the occasion for a drink was in 
evidence immediately he could find a cache of 
whiskey bottles. And the Governor persisted in 
saying that was the best exhibition he gave of his 
hunting proclivities. 

But the Governor concluded his narrative with 
an explanation due the Major. The latter had 
stated that the cause of the numerous caches had 
been entirely due to his inability to conceal any- 
thing from pilfering employees. 

It was easy to see that the innumerable caches 

85 



JIST HUNTIN' 

held no lure for the Governor. How he shifted his 
host's attention to his secretary and drew me next 
day for the assignment I never knew, but I felt well 
honored. The chief executive of my State was a 
sportsman and I was anxious as he that he should 
not leave the White River country without an elk. 

Snow fell during the night. But the following 
day was warm and soon under the touch of the sun 
the snow passed away, leaving the soil, where not 
too rocky, in a soft condition. We rode into a flat- 
rock country toward the northwest. At a tiny seep 
spring we found plenty elk tracks and in one clump 
of brush they had done considerable milling while 
browsing. For a time it was easy to follow them, 
for they bunched together well, rather a convincing 
proof that no old bulls were there, were not the 
small tracks sufficient. 

On arriving at a broken rock country, which was 
more of a series of undulating small hills than 
typical of the balance of the environments, signs 
were fresh, as well as numerous. 

Climbing a small hill, I faced a west wind as I 
peered down in a valley. I saw a fairly large band 
of elk. Without giving closer scrutiny I returned 
to the horses and apprised my companion of my 
discovery. On pointing out the elk to him I noticed 
there were no old bulls, mostly cows that seemed 
very adept at circling three young bulls. Even at a 
distance I could distinguish them from the cows. 

Studying the situation we agreed to circle the 
small hill tops, doing our utmost to beat wind. At 

86 



WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 

the same time both hazarded an opinion that per- 
haps a little way back in the timber there might be 
a bull of consequence, that was less willing to ex- 
pose himself to the full view of onlookers. 

Down on hands and knees we moved slowly. All 
at once something on the opposite hill seemed to 
disturb the elk. The band became restless, seemingly 
at first prompted only with one leading thought, 
to keep the young bulls encircled by the females. 
But at last all together they broke into a slow trot, 
which immediately increased in speed as the roar 
of an exploded black powder cartridge nearby came 
to our ears. We saw the clouds of smoke in the 
timber opposite. The band broke into a disorderly 
flight toward us. 

We permitted them to pass. Only two young 
bulls came real close. Their heads were far below 
the Governor's standard. Again we heard a roar 
of black powder from the same place, immediately 
followed by three more shots from the same rifle. 
Then I beheld a young bull lagging behind the 
balance but headed for our direction. 

On closer examination we observed simultan- 
eously that the animal was badly crippled in the 
left foreleg and could just move. Unlike a white- 
tailed deer it showed none of the fervid determina- 
tion to pile on speed until death siezed it. Rather 
it exhibited a dearth of fear of the presence of man 
as though it only sought a convenient place to lay 
down. 

But we never saw the hunter. We watched for 

87 



JIST HUNTIN' 

his appearance without result. Probably he was 
some one without a hunting license and, having 
caught sight of us, judged us to be officers and made 
his getaway. 

Closer the crippled bull came to us. At once we 
observed that the front leg was broken. He was 
walking on three legs, the fourth dangling pitifully 
at his side. I looked for advice to the Governor. 
He put his hand before his eyes. The sight was too 
much for him. The animal was suffering intensely. 
I have never picked on unsophisticated young bulls, 
but mine was an act of mercy when I terminated 
his misery with a .303. 

On examining the young bull we found the leg 
had been broken in two places about six inches 
apart. In the shoulder was lodged a large caliber 
bullet, such as some of the old model black powder 
rifles functioned. 

The Major and the secretary were jubilant at 
what they were pleased to term our success. It was 
meat at least, and both showed that they had faith- 
fully hunted the Major's caches and obviously had 
found them. As for ourselves we were not a bit 
proud of our achievement. I do not think either 
one of us — though the Major strove his utmost to 
entertain — could efface the persisting picture of the 
crippled young bull. 

Faithfully I promised the Governor a big bull 
worthy of his prowess, with antlers that would 
prove acceptable. For five days I failed, and late 
the evening of the sixth we trailed a big track from 




The End of the Quest 



WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 

a seep spring up into a very broken rock country, 
when darkness overtook us. 

"We will find him early tomorrow morning layin' 
on one of those side hills!" I prophesied. 

The Governor made no response. But the twinkle 
in his eye showed he was extremely optimistic and 
had so much faith as I in our chances for success the 
following day. 

Long before day we were enroute to the place 
where we gave up the trail the night previous. 
Tying our horses to two sturdy saplings, we pro- 
ceeded up a valley, then rested on a hillslope which 
was a splendid shelter from the north wind. 

Day had scarcely topped the eastern peaks when we 
discovered the bull had passed the night before over 
the hill on which we were resting. Once in a while 
the impress was visible when the rocks were less 
frequent and the tawny sedge grass yielded to the 
weight of the monster. Finally as the sun began to 
show in full splender we lost the trail in the middle 
of a small valley, flanked on both sides with sloping 
flat-rock hills, yellow and dark tan here and there 
with the ubiquitous sedge grass. We did our best 
to pick up the trail, but failed. 

By mere accident I happened to search the east 
slope of the large hill to our left. Perhaps it was 
only intuition that urged me to look more carefully. 
Suddenly I stood still and stared, unbelieving. In 
a patch of sedge and stunted oaks, seemingly blended 
well with the surroundings, yet there was something 
there that caused me to drop to the ground and give 

89 



JIST HUNTIN' 

my eyes further exercise. The Governor did like- 
wise. He could see nothing unusual. 

At first I doubted my eyes, but more careful at- 
tention proved their truthfulness. 

"Keep down!" I whispered in excitement. 

"See anything?" murmured the chief executive 
of one of the largest States in the Union. 

"Don't you?" 

"Not— a— thing!" 

"Try again," I assured him in the lowest tones 
at my command. 

"Not a d — m thing can I see!" irreverently con- 
fessed my companion. 

"God — Look! Right between those twisted trees. 
Don't move! 

"Not — a — thing — can — I — see," the Governor 
slowly admitted. 

"Why, Governor! The biggest elk I ever saw is 
lying in that patch of sedge grass between them. 
See his head move a little?" 

"No. Where?" 

"My God, man, haven't you any eyes? He's a 
monster! He's winding us now!" 

But, though I strove to point out the big elk, the 
Governor was unable to locate him. Strange, too, 
for usually he had a mighty fine pair of woods' 
eyes. And, even when that massive creature arose 
and stood in all his glorious majesty facing the east- 
ern sun, the Governor could not see him, so well had 
blending coloration deceived him. 

For an instant the monster bull gazed hard toward 

90 



WITH WHITE RIVER ELK 

the east, a veritable picture of the monarch of the 
wilds. Then, still glancing in the same direction, 
cautiously he proceeded up the slope, all the while 
his massive head feeling the east for danger. 

"There! There! See him? Now!" I cried, "get 
him before he steps into the cover!" 

"Where? — " Then all at once the Governor dis- 
covered the bull. But the animal had observed our 
movements and broke for the cover in his rear. 

Three times the Governor's old lever action spite- 
fully whined its familiar note. Three times I thought 
he missed; and also was on the point of losing my 
sense of propriety by upbraiding him, when his fourth 
shot rang out through the hills. 

I thought I could almost hear the impact of the 
bullet on the elk's side at the instant when he seemed 
to merge with the dark background. But he stopped 
all at once, throwing his head forward as though 
to dash toward us. But he suddenly dropped like 
a falling tree in a big patch of sedge. 

Out of breath from scaling the height at unac- 
customed speed, we found the big bull dead. When 
able to talk coherently, I congratulated the Governor, 
for all four bullets had lodged not eight inches apart, 
making four gory holes around the region of the 
big creature's heart. 



91 



XI 

My Pet, the Woodcock 

Since a boy these little brown birds have held 
my interest. I can recall my first kill and my hunt- 
ing grounds. Though entirely separated now from 
the old scenes, they live as if I saw them only yester- 
day. In late years my love for the sagacious looking 
fellows made me desist from shooting so much as 
in former years, but where I know them best their 
numbers seem never to diminish. 

Many friends I have had among woodcock. I 
can scarcely recall a year in which I have not made 
myself familiar with a few and felt strong regrets 
when the call of the warm South lured them away 
from my frequenting grounds. The covers seem 
desolate and without charm when they are away, 
despite the fact that they form hiding places for 
other wild creatures during the absence of the wood- 
cocks. 

My first pets came to me unheralded. What 
became of the parents I never knew. I found them 
close to my garden in some mayapple cover, where 
they stood staring at me unsuspiciously. I waited 
the longest time for the arrival of either mother or 
father woodcock, but they never came. And, as 
the youngsters showed no disinclination to permit 
my approach, I picked them up and carried them 

92 



MY PET, THE WOODCOCK 

home with the greatest care. They were queer little 
fellows — all bill and all appetite. If there is any- 
animal in the world the weight of a young woodcock 
that can eat one tenth as much, it has never been 
within the scope of my investigations. 

From the first hour I adopted these fellows they 
acquired the eating habit. They could stow away 
as many worms as I could dig, and then cast a wistful 
look for more. Many times after I thought I had 
surfeited them with their favorite food, I discovered 
them in the garden storing away cutworms as 
avidly as though they had not had a bite for days. 
Notwithstanding that they were reared in the wild- 
est environment, they exhibited no desire to leave, 
even after they could fly well. The farthest they 
ever went from our front yard was to a small pond 
near by, which was well covered by tangles of briar 
and buckbrush. They enjoyed themselves there 
during the warm part of the day, and generally 
indulged in a siesta for several hours under the 
shadows of the bonnet leaves that grew close to 
the water. 

About four o'clock Tom and Jerry, as we called 
the pair, turned up and proceeded on their inevitable 
slow round through the garden after cutworms 
among the pea vines. I could pick them up any- 
where, and they liked very much to be petted. But 
still I have a lingering belief that they appreciated 
my attentions more when I had a big supply of 
worms in my hands. 

I became so devoted to my sagacious looking pair 

93 



JIST HUNTIN' 

that I watched over them with as much care as a 
mother gives her youngest. If attendance on Tom 
and Jerry took me away from other duties, always 
I felt well repaid at night when they came to the 
porch and sought my caresses before roosting in 
their little enclosure. 

Perhaps I will never look over a good woodcock 
cover without thinking of Tom and Jerry, for their 
departure was as unexpected as their arrival near 
my home. A number of woodcocks dropped into 
the thicket near my quarters late that fall. Tom 
and Jerry, like domesticated woodcocks should, for 
several days held themselves aloof from their wild 
cousins. Just after the first heavy frost, I went in 
search of the wild fellows. They were not there. 
I had heard no gunners in the neighborhood, but 
I am sure they enticed my little friends away, for 
I never saw them again. 

For a while the loss of Tom and Jerry was for- 
gotten in another woodcock. One spring day I 
found him under a mayapple plant close to a lazy 
little creek that coursed through a meadow. From 
the first day I classified him as a bachelor, and I 
still adhere to the correctness of my classification. 
From the first day in spring that I saw him never 
was he seen with another of his kind. His deport- 
ment in this respect remained the same until he 
left for a trip South the following fall. 

At first he was not easy to get acquainted with. 
But I was persistent. I watched him day after day 
in his sodden lair until he began to realize that al- 

94 



MY PET, THE WOODCOCK 

together I was rather a harmless creature. At first 
he began to feed, but if I made the slightest move- 
ment he retreated to his lair and waited at least 
ten minutes, standing as still as a statue, until again 
he dared venture forth. Later I began to place 
worms close to where I had been. Then, soon he 
began partaking of the delicacies, if I moved back a 
little. It did not take long for him to associate my 
presence with worms, and in a month's time I could 
place my hand on him. Within two months he 
permitted me to pick him up, but never until I had 
shown evidence of a copious stock of earth worms 
in my possession. The way to a man's affection is 
through his stomach: the same with a woodcock. 

But my bachelor was as fickle in his affections as 
Tom and Jerry. He did not wait for company, but 
the first frost in fall he was off, perhaps as ever 
pursuing his life as a celibate. 

My new woodcock grounds are anything but like 
what the naturalist tells you is their favorite habitat. 
It is up in a heavily timbered hill country, studded 
with various hardwoods, and covers of sumac, hazel 
and defying spinuous vines. The soil is moist — 
what there is of it. But the woodcock must seek 
arduously for his diet, for the ground is mostly cov- 
ered with broken flint rock. My, the numbers that 
are there are almost beyond belief! They are in 
hundreds, and in a place where man is sure not to 
molest them! They are friendly woodcock, too, 
if one will only take the time and lives there long 
enough to encou^^age confidence. 

95 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Last spring I went there, determined to adopt 
another Tom and Jerry. After I became one of the 
family I changed my mind. I could never hope to 
procure enough worms for that band of brown fel- 
lows. With me they were very much against famili- 
arity for a long time. But I frequented their grounds 
day after day and they soon regarded me as only a 
harmless bird lover. But as much as they would 
permit my approach alone, never would they stand 
for the presence of a companion. I tried it several 
times. Each time I was unsuccessful. While they 
would not fly away, they would run wirh all their 
might and secrete themselves until the other human 
had departed. 

Last fall I began to forget the effect that Tom and 
Jerry had once upon me. I heard of woodcocks in 
the neighborhood, and with gun and dog went in 
search of them. In a small thicket of sumac the old 
pointer froze stifly in recognition of game. Two 
birds flushed. A good, easy chance for a double. I 
lined the sight on one, then shifted it quickly to the 
other. Then I fired the gun way over my bird, in 
a sudden desire to miss, as suddenly I heard the 
crisping whistle of the two birds simultaneously. 
To this day I vow I heard the voices of Tom and 
Jerry. 



96 



XII 
No Feud 

How A Famous Foxhound Brought Peace and 

Forgiveness to Murderous Hill 

Men of the Ozarks 

All morning, from his bed of saffron black-oak 
leaves. Grip observed with contempt the home- 
coming of Tom Breathwaite's pack of foxhounds. 
Ever since sunrise they had arrived in pairs and 
trios, sore-footed, hollow-stomached, red-eyed — ex- 
hibiting the inevitable dejection of dogs for whom the 
race had been too strenuous. From most of them 
the early call of the Ozarker's horn had brought 
no response. The killing race of the night previous 
had robbed them of both strength and ambition. 

Two hours before the finish of the race, nineteen 
dogs out of the pack of twenty had dropped out. 
Gritty to the limit they had hung on to the trail as 
far as Nature permitted. But the swiftness of the 
fox had been so accelerated by the great speed of the 
lead dog, Grip, that long before day the tonal striv- 
ings of the pack had dwindled to the vibrant, bell- 
like notes of a single dog. 

And yet Grip held on tenaciously to the trail. His 
big feet heeded not the inflictions of the sharp flint 
rocks; the muscles of flexible steel showed no fa- 

97 



JIST HUNTIN' 

tigue. The great heart of the big black and tan 
Walker hound beat happily. 

Even to Tom Breathwaite, mountaineer — tall, 
pale-eyed, and as hardy to the exigencies of the sport 
as the lead hound he owned — the race had been a 
trying one. No red fox within his memory had ever 
taken such long circles and unexpected diverging 
cuts across the mountains, to the extent that for 
some time he felt the race as impossible of termi- 
nating in favor of the dogs. When at times it was 
hottest and promised to end, that wily red changed 
tactics and threw off all the pack except the big 
hound, Grip. 

Persevering, leech-like, determined — actually rev- 
eling in the punishment of the cruel going — Grip 
pursued across Bagamah Mountain, down into the 
valley of Gooseneck, up among the pine-crested 
craggy summit of Hargis, back over the same coun- 
try, and then abruptly thru the broken-rock areas 
of Bog Hollow. 

Now the Red — tho a moment before he felt that 
he could run the big dog off his feet, as he had the 
other nineteen hounds — began to realize his danger. 
Purposely he drew the big dog to Hargis Mountain, 
sensing that the chaos of rock would effect his un- 
doing. But the hound's voice showed he was getting 
closer, and there was nothing in it of tremulousness 
or of incoherency to indicate extra effort. Imme- 
diately the red concluded he had hazarded too long 
a circle. He was tiring rapidly. Could that big 
hound hang on forever? At that instant it struck 

98 



NO FEUD 

him that the distance from the place he had selected 
to hole was at least four miles. He flung his blood- 
hot tawny muzzle to the east, scenting the cool 
approach of morning. That was why he crossed a 
big rough hill — ^jumping from boulder to boulder and 
quickly shortening his half-achieved circle — on down 
into Bog Hollow; as from there to Phillip's Blufi^ 
was but a brief run, leaving him after that a straight 
unobstacled run of a half mile. 

Conqueror tho he was of nineteen fast foxhounds, 
the red had underestimated the endurance and 
swiftness of the last remaining dog of the pack. 
Momentarily Grip's notes were somewhat muffled 
by intervening altitudes. But as the red gained the 
level top of Phillip's Bluff, Grip sounded menac- 
ingly on his trail. Now the race was a sight race — 
Grip coming fast at incredible speed and absolutely 
determined to make the kill. That fox accomplished 
prodigies in speed. The hound surpassed him. The 
last dash of the fox for his objective availed 
him nothing. Ten feet from the boulder which 
hid his den above Current River, Grip caught 
the game, foam-flecked little animal and killed it 
ir^stantly. 

Fifteen minutes later Tom Breathwaite rode on 
the scene. His saddle-horse reeked with fetid 
lather of profuse sweating. Its legs trembled. 
Tough little mountain horse that it was, it was evi- 
dent it could no longer bear the weight of its master. 
The lanky Ozarker quickly dismounted, took off 
bridle and saddle, and gave the horse its liberty. 

99 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Then, kneeling on the frost stricken ground, he drew 
the hound's head close to his own and exclaimed: 
"Gee, Grip! you sho' air sum dawg!" 

^ :^ ^ :i: ^ ^ ^ 

Again, later in the day, Breathwaite made the 
same exclamation. At his home he found Grip 
curled up in a bed of leaves against the south side 
of the smoke-house. At his presence the dog bounded 
to his feet, then stretched from hind leg to fore leg, 
and ejaculated a peculiar sound, which is con- 
strued by dog lovers as an expression of pleasure. 
Tho Breathwaite eyed the dog critically, there was 
no evidence of strain or wear from the great race. 
Picking up the feet one by one, they shrank none at 
the pressing of the big brown forefinger. Then, when 
the Ozarker dropped the examination, his pale eyes 
glinted with boundless affection and self-satisfied 
appraisal. 

"Grip, old boy," he commented, "youse air sho' 
a whoppin' houn'! Youse kin outrun ennything in 
the hills. Wide-chested, high in front, low behind, 
big-boned, t'aint nary a wonder youse kerries your 
big weight as if youse never had enny!" 

"Hey thar, Tom!" A voice unmistakably ad- 
dicted to the Ozark nasal twang called from the road 
in front of Breathwaite's cabin. 

"Howdy, Jabe. Come and stay a while," drawled 
Tom in answer, while speculating fast on what might 
have brought Jabe Hancock from Bee Rock. Jabe 
was an old friend of Tom's. 

The visitor was a small, dark, little man, garbed 

100 



NO FEUD 

in well-worn clothes, which at an earlier period might 
have been of any color but their present one. Strag- 
gling, long, stiff, gray-black hair protruded thru a 
slit or tear in his hat, as tho the aperture had been 
purposely contrived for its accommodation. Jabe 
rode a small flea-bitten gray mule thru the gap in 
the yard fence, by which Tom's range animals came 
up to the cabin for a taste of salt or an occasional 
meager feed of corn. Dismounting, he took off bridle 
and saddle, and gave no further attention to his 
mount. 

"Some dawg — hain't he?" Breathwaite began, as 
he saw Jabe's eyes linger admiringly on Grip. Then 
his eyes shifted to Jabe. "What the hell's the matter, 
Jabe? Something a-doin' aroun' Bee Rock? Mc- 
Intyres?" 

"Yep," nodded the little hill man enigmatically. 

"Well?" demanded Breathwaite. "Let's go in the 
house." 

Together they entered the two-room log cabin. 
Two separate houses had once been built — single 
room affairs — now unified into one structure thru 
the medium of a roofed porch. The room which 
Tom selected contained a generous fireplace, a single 
bed and two rough hickory chairs — all achievements 
of the owner's tools. The few adornments on the 
wall were confined to a hunting horn, shotgun, a 
riding bridle, and a well-cared-for modern rifle. 

"Wall," Jabe narrated, after he had dexterously 
expectorated on the tiny flames issuing from a 
smouldering black oak log, and had accepted a chair 

lOI 



JIST HUNTIN' 

from Breathwaite. "Cash Mclntyre kilt your own 
brother, Polk, up near Bee Rock, jist after they'd 
fit a while over school meetin'. Cash started home 
fust. Breshed Polk near Big Crick. Put a .303 clear 
thru his chest!" 

"And did — " Breathwaite started to ask without 
emotion. 

"Jist lissen a minute, man!" Jabe interposed, 
and then narrated: "Kizzie, Polk's woman, heerd all 
erbout hit righterway. She put four buckshot inter 
Cash's forehaid! She went to his home. When Cash 
heered her a-callin' he cum to the doah to see who 
hit wuz." 

At this juncture the Bee Rock courier paused to 
ascertain the effect his news had on Breathwaite. 
He could distinguish the face paling, despite its 
coat of tan. The jaws thrust forward menacingly. 
Then Sam arose from his chair, and stared for a 
while at the fire. 

"Go on, Jabe! I'm a-lis'nin'," Breathwaite said — 
a new light showing in the former expressionless face. 

"When the news got erbout in the hills Sam Mc- 
lntyre lit out," Jabe continued. "Sam 'lowed he 
wuz boun' for his cabin erbout Bagamah Mountain. 
He had a rifle with him, and he sho' had a chanct to 
git Keener Richmond, Kizzie's brother. Keener 
didn't have a thing to shoot with — nary a thing but 
his hands for to fight with. But Sam didn't do a 
thing erbout hit, and, tho he struck up Keener, he 
jist sed he wuz gwine to git outen the country, and 
for Keener to hike home. My! think of Mclntyre 

102 



NO FEUD 

a-sayin' that! He actually said he wah'nt a-goin' to 
stain his hands with no blood. He had nothin' agen 
nobody. Ther'd bin too much blood spilt already. 
I recken he don't ricollect he's a Mclntyre, if he is 
the las' one a-livin'!" 

"He won't be the last Mclntyre long!" exploded 
the tall Ozarker. "I'm the last of the Breathwaites. 
Polk had nary a kid. Jabe, take care of my shack 
for a day or two. Feed Grip well — and the rest of 
the dawgs. No use a-feedin' stock while there's 
some range left. But be sho' and don't forget Grip. 
Mind that, now!" 

Without another word Breathwaite took his 
Savage rifle from its repository of half-green un- 
barked hickory pegs above the fireplace, worked 
the well-oiled action with the lever back and forth, 
and then filled the magazine with its quota of ugly 
bottle-shaped, soft-nosed cartridges. 

A moment later, from the roadway door, Jabe 

beheld the Ozarker disappear into a clump of second 

growth bull pines. 

* * * * 

Perhaps it was the early urge of hunger or the 
inevitable promptings of his strain that brought to 
Grip a feeling of restlessness. In the faint moon- 
light that was giving precedence to steel-gray bands 
of luminance in the east, he perceived his associates 
scattered around the yard. They slept well. The 
effects of the memorable fox hunt still held them 
motionless. Neither approaching day nor the har- 
rowing ululations of a gray timber wolf, in a deaden- 

103 



JIST HUNTIN' 

ing on the slope of Kelley Bluff, could stir them to 
activity. 

Grip scented the frost-laden air, rolled over, 
stretched, got to his feet, shook himself and stretched 
again; then trotted, head high, out of the yard for 
the woods. A day of inactivity had been too trying. 
Today he would satiate his self-hunting instinct. 
At first he cared little about what object he would 
pursue. Anything that caused his limbs fast action 
would do. He was not aware that it was a century 
of careful breeding that was acting as compelling 
force. He knew, however, that he must hunt or 
undergo a restless day at the mountain home. As a 
stimulant he started a swamp rabbit amidst elbow 
brush in a soggy sink of the hills, permitted it to 
race ahead for a while; then, presently realizing the 
chase was beneath his dignity, killed it and devoured 
a small part. His master never would have per- 
mitted this. Grip knew Breathwaite regarded no 
other chase than that of the fox as compatible with 
one of his blood, barring now and then a too bold 
timber wolf. But today was a day of his own de- 
signing, and he decided to make the most of it. Also 
he wished very much to appease an almost uncon- 
trollable desire to chase deer. This, too, his master 
had always ruled against, tho not thru any par- 
ticular qualms of sportsmanship. Deer were numer- 
ous, and, were dogs permitted to run them, the best 
planned fox hunt would terminate in a deer race. 
Grip had to conform to his master's will — despite 
instinct crying madly and continuously for a run 

104 



NO FEUD 

after a swift, strong scented deer. Grip was positive 
his master was away. So he made no effort to trail 
him, as a village pot licker might have done. 

For some time the big hound cold trailed a deer. 
But this slow work did not appeal — it might neces- 
sitate hours to start it from its bed. Several cold 
trails he followed, relinquishing them in disgust. 
As well as a drive dog, he was a peerless strike dog 
■ — a veritable scout. No more cold trailing for him. 
Now he was going to range wide, and chance start- 
ing a white-tail from its bed. Instinct, sharpened 
by self-hunting and scouting for foxes, announced 
the proper place. In November, just after the 
travail of rutting, the old bucks liked to lay up in 
the rough, inaccessible places during the day. 

Trotting up the draw toward the south end of 
Gunn Bluff, head and flag well up as customary, 
just as he invaded the roughest brake of the country 
the longed-for scent came strongly from the stunted 
sumacs. Suddenly with increased vigor the west 
wind forced instant recognition. At once Grip 
bellowed forth to the wilds his insuperable joy. A 
large buck broke into a series of spectacular bounds 
from amidst the gray-lichened boulders, sumac, 
hazel and tall plume-like yellow sedge grass. Tho 
unable to see the quarry, the hound knew of its 
presence. A few agile jumps brought him to the 
buck's bed. Then the race was on! 

At night Tom Breathwaite camped some distance 
from his home. Here Current River pursued its 

105 



JIST HUNTIN' 

mad course. It is a river crystal clear, of contin- 
uous fast water, quick, treacherous bends, innumer- 
able long rapids, and swift chattering shoals. That 
day the mountaineer had no expectation of finding 
Sam Mclntyre. When he arose the next morning 
he went to the woods, killed two gray squirrels, 
cooked them over a driftwood fire, and after eating 
pressed into service a gentle range horse to carry 
him across a ford to the west side. Later he met a 
native, who paddled him downstream a number of 
miles. After deciding to pursue his course on foot, 
he left the boat. This was done thru a desire for 
self-preservation. In the undergrowth on either side 
Mclntyre might be hiding. Notwithstanding his 
enemy's treatment of Keener Richmond, and his 
subsequent declaration to that individual, Sam was 
his born feud enemy. He had no other belief than 
a persisting one that Sam would try to kill him at 
sight. Breathwaite had no desire, brave tho he was 
to rashness, to furnish Sam the opportunity. So he 
was endeavoring to execute plans he had formu- 
lated for just the reverse. 

As day wore on the Ozarker hugged the cover, 
resting now and then as the mood seized him. Ac- 
customed as he was to being alone, he had formed 
the habit of talking to himself. Presently his 
thoughts wandered from Mclntyre to Grip. The 
environments were reminiscent of the great race of 
two days ago after the red. 

"Some dawg, Grip! I sho' say, he's sojne dawg!" 
he remarked in a voice only audible to himself. 

io6 



NO FEUD 

Then his thoughts abruptly reverted to the old feud. 
"I'll ketch Sam somewhere twixt Gooseneck and 
Bagamah. If I do, all this hyar Mclntyre business 
will end right there. I reckon hit'll be a good thing, 
anyway. Breathwaites cain't live — no use a-talkin' 
—while there's a polecat of a Mclntyre left!" 

Far in the east from the direction of pine-backed 
Gunn Bluff he recognized the half audible notes of 
a running hound. The notes were fast — chattering 
fast. 

"Hit's a durn good thing I never let Grip run 
deer," he commented. 'Tf-I had he wouldn't a been 
worth a torn 'possum hide for fox huntin'!" 

The hound's voice — even at that distance away 
— was remarkably similar to Grip's. All the moun- 
taineer's love for the dog instantly overwhelmed 
other emotions. Never had he craved human com- 
panionship. The opposite sex had never appealed 
in the least. Women were all right for some— but 
mostly got men in trouble. As for dogs; "They 
sure air always friends," he would have said. His 
needs were few; the small farm exacted little physi- 
cal effort. Open range furnished most of the food 
for his livestock. He had sought the retreat far 
back in the hills solely to indulge in his love for the 
chase. Dogs — Grip — had supplanted affection for 
humans. His quest for Mclntyre was partly au- 
tomatic, like his dog's self-hunting — blood respond- 
ing to blood type in years of breeding. 

And now Mclntyre was entirely forgotten. That 
hound was not fox hunting, but pushing a deer at 

107 



JIST HUNTIN' 

a tremendous pace! "He's sho' a-makin' that deer 
hotfoot some, I'm a-thinkin'!" the Ozarker declared 
enthusiastically. Then the race almost immedi- 
ately drew near the river. 

"By Gawd, hit's Grip!" he shouted aloud. 
"Whoopee, Whoopee, boy! Whoopee! Sure's enny- 
thing. Grip's after that big eleven p'int buck, and 
he's aheadin' for McGonigal's Failure!" 

Even in his excitement his devotion to the ethics 
of fox hunting did not desert him entirely. The 
famous deer crossing at McGonigal's Failure was 
well known to him. At the head of that treacher- 
ous rapid hundreds of times slim-legged deer had 
baffled hounds. Tho under no condition would he 
kill the deer, he was determined to be a spectator. 
Were he to kill the deer, not only would Grip's fu- 
ture as a fox dog be in jeopardy, but he might pos- 
sibly announce his presence to his enemy. Sam was 
well acquainted with the bark of his Savage. 

Down thru a small bottom came the deer — hotly, 
sternly pursued by the big chanting hound. The 
deer ran along the steep bank a few yards down- 
stream; then, tossing its head back defiantly, it 
gracefully leaped to the stream — taking the water a 
short distance above the rapid. It angled consider- 
ably upstream until it reached breast-deep water. 
Then, a pace further, and only the sharp-pointed 
muzzle and antlers were observable. 

Only a rod or so behind. Grip burst into sight — 
in happy, vibrant staccato drive song. The brush 

io8 



NO FEUD 

had partly concealed the movements of the deer. 
Tho he had no fear of the current, the dog ran down- 
stream to discover if the buck had resorted to any 
deceits of its kind, such as simulating taking to 
the water as if to cross, but returning to the same 
bank. About twenty yards below the river is at 
its greatest frenzy — the entire current beating 
frantically and incessantly against the east bank. 
For a fleeting second Grip surveyed the river — 
instantly distinguished the swimming quarry — and 
announced his enthusiasm. He jumped into the 
water, but his chant changed to a howl of pain. In 
a tiny pocket of backwater along the yellow gravel 
bank his right forepaw touched the pan of a mink 
trap, and it closed on it viciously. 

In a single bound, urged by mingled anger and 
pain, he exerted all the strength at his command. 
The root to which the trap chain was fastened gave 
way, but the trap held. Grip fell backward into 
the rushing water. With one mighty sweep it sucked 
him down. As he rose to the surface his figure 
righted, but the unyielding water flung him like a 
dry leaf midstream. 

Tho hampered by the trap, Grip's attempt at 
swimming was fairly successful. Continuing in the 
course the current propelled him, he approached 
midstream, close to one of those many semi-sub- 
merged oak trees which are constant menaces to 
swift waterways. By some inexplicable means the 
trap chain became entangled in a projecting limb, 

109 



JIST HUNTIN' 

and interfered with Grip's progress. Here the water 
ripped by at an amazing gait. The dog was a help- 
less prisoner. Now the water flung him against the 
tree, but as he attempted to climb the slippery trunk, 
the restrictions of the chain prevented. The dog 
whimpered some as the pain from the trap increased, 
but the current mockingly tossed him back with 
almost rhythmic precision. Again and again Grip 
struggled against the cruel conditions, the water, 
seemingly instilled by another mood, ducked his 
head repeatedly until his cry became almost in- 
audible. 

"Grip's in a mink trap!" exclaimed the moun- 
taineer, straining eye and ear for action and sound. 
"Gawd help the man that sot hit, if I ever ketch 
him!" 

Tom Breathwaite was at least a fourth of a mile 
from his pet — no boat within sight; no possibility 
of succoring him. For half a mile a swift, unfordable 
cut-off effectively barred him from the river. Any 
effort in that direction would only delay. He ran 
downstream thru the tangle of hazel and sawbriars, 
sensing a cold wave of despair as he now and then 
caught sight of the cruel water beating the life out 
of his dog. He had given up hope — almost^ There 
was no chance of his ever reaching Grip in time. 
Grip. Grip! the only creature he had ever loved! 
Even the feud lust died in him at the thought of the 
animal's predicament. 

To Breathwaite it appeared as tho Grip was being 

I 10 



NO FEUD 

pounded into the water for the last thne. He closed 
his eyes to hide the spectacle. The dog's muffled 
cries had ceased. Then suddenly — in amazement — 
he saw a tall mountaineer step out into view from 
the willows nearby — no doubt having been attracted 
by the dog's struggle. The man, with one swift 
glance over the scene, threw down his rifle on the 
bar, and deliberately waded to Grip's assistance. 

The mad current was in no humor to loose its 
victim thru the interference of a mere man. For a 
while it spun him around in a circle; then it carried 
him below the tree like a feather in a gale — finally 
flinging him impotent on the gravel bar. Again and 
again the man strove pluckily to efi'ect the rescue 
of Grip, but each time, as before, he was carried 
beyond his goal, until seemingly he had no longer 
the strength to persevere longer. 

Presently — conscious that such efforts were un- 
availing — with what little strength was left to him 
he dragged his tired body to the bar, and tho too 
weakened to stand, he crawled slowly on his hands 
and knees far upstream above the dog. For only 
a second or two he rested — all the while eyeing the 
stream. Then he took the water. His generalship 
was perfect. The race of water bore him directly 
to the tree. Extending a bare, brown, wet hand — 
steadying himself with a single hand — he reached 
down and released the obstructed trap chain. 

When Breathwaite finally arrived at the termi- 
nation of the rapid he found Grip's recuer on the 

III 



JIST HUNTIN' 

bar, face downward, and in a half-unconscious state. 
Heedless of the manacled foot Grip licked the cold 
hands. 

That night by a roaring fire — throwing sparks 
aloft into the tops of the tallest bull pines and tre- 
mendous luminance far down into the last reaches 
of McGonigaFs — Grip stared at his master, whose 
arm rested affectionately on his rescuer's shoulder. 
For a while all was silent, except the petulant snap- 
ping of the green pine fire. 

"That sho' is some dawg," Breathwaite finally 
said, in his soft drawl. 

"He looks almost as tho he could talk," replied 
his companion, in unaffected admiration of the big 
hound. 

"He's got the sense, Sam, even if he cain't talk," 
declared Breathwaite, with no little vehemence. 
"But, if he could right now he'd be a-saying I wuz 
a durned old fool if 1 didn't go up to Bee Rock and 
lick the fust man that said there wuz a feud twixt 
me and Sam Mclntyre!" 



I 12 



XIII 
Southern Bear Hunting 

Association is the cause of many things, and I 
think that the reason I began to consider the South- 
ern black bear as a sporting proposition was entirely 
due from the daily conversation I heard on the sub- 
ject, and the infrequent signs I met up with in the 
swamps of Little and St. Francis Rivers. Perhaps 
I would have gotten into the game earlier, had I 
faith that one of my hounds had the ability pur- 
ported to be the heritage of every long-eared dog in 
the swamps. 

Once in a while I felt tempted to bring down one 
of my hillbilly foxhounds and try him out in a 
hunt, but usually my spirits were dampened as I 
broached the proposition to some lean native. They 
never told me not to, but they had another way of 
dissuading me. They forced me to listen to their 
recitals of the deeds of their famous dogs, and when 
they did my hill dogs suffered so much in compari- 
son promptly I lost faith in them. 

On two occasions without dogs I hunted alone. 
I combed the canebrakes pretty well where I had 
seen signs. But as far as results were concerned, 
I brought back no bears. None of my ventures I 
confided to the natives. I knew it would only pro- 
duce ridicule; something to which at that time I 

113 



JIST HUNTIN' 

was very sensitive. My first trip ended without the 
sight of game. My second I got sight of a big black 
fellow slipping into a small patch of switch cane 
before I could bring my rifle to my shoulder. I felt 
sure of him, however. The patch was not fifty yards 
long, and, except being flanked by a few cypress 
logs, there was nothing to hide him. The growth 
of cane was not over ten feet wide. If that bear 
moved out of the cover I felt sure of a shot. I en- 
tered the cane, and though I watched the outside I 
never got another sight of him. Truly I secured not 
the quarry I was after, but I gained a knowledge 
that had heretofore been kept secret from me; 
clumsy as is a Southern bear, he is adept at conceal- 
ment and is a little wiser than most hunters of my 
caliber. 

Came the time when I consented to join a hunt. 
They told me a few old-time bear hunters would 
attend. The southern Missouri native may have a 
tendency to exaggerate, but it was not in evidence 
on the subject of numbers. Their meaning of "few" 
proved to be some two hundred men on all sorts of 
mounts, from mule to bony nag, with guns of every 
vintage and an assortment of dogs which was beyond 
the powers of the greatest sage in kenneldom to 
classify. There was a single outstanding trait about 
the owners, if not so conspicuous in the dogs' per- 
formance, every owner chewed tobacco, every owner 
vowed that his bear dog was the best that ever ran 
in the Little River swamps. 

Finally a leader was chosen, a man of rather di- 
114 



SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 

minutive stature, extremely slender, with thread- 
bare clothing, a horn suspended from his shoulder 
and bearing in his right hand the longest ten-gauge, 
single-barrel shot gun mortal man had ever beheld. 
If the shot gun drew my attention it did not half 
interest me so much as his powerful voice. The 
roar of a lion was an insignificant whisper in com- 
parison. You could hear Billy White's voice above 
that bedlam of dogs and boasting men. Hanging 
down this worthy's back by a cord was a long cane 
knife, which gave him the aspect of a rather bellig- 
erent creature. Though most of the men had cane 
knives, none of them altogether conveyed the same 
impression in my mind as Billy. 

Billy White merely raised his hand aloft and let 
a roar, and then, as if by a single impulse, dogs and 
men were on the way to the canebrakes. A mile 
from the little saw-mill town at some distance a 
bitch sounded strike and the notes carried as clear 
as a bell through the swamps. At the same time 
every dog opened up, as if they were all the original 
discoverers of the trail, and each rider vowed no 
other hound could produce the same sound but his 
pet. 

It was some relief that the chase was on. Sud- 
denly I discovered I was not very comfortable on 
the small, round-bellied nag assigned me. Nig's 
punishing rough trot grew no better when con- 
fronted by down timber and the numerous logs. I 
never knew how long I would stay on that wide back, 
for the saddle kept sliding, though numerous times 

115 



JIST HUNTIN' 

I did my best to get it cinched tightly. But the fat 
fellow's shape seemed never to adjust itself to the 
saddle, though I managed to keep in the wake of the 
rough riders, who made more noise with their yelp- 
ing than the dogs. 

Suddenly the entire race v/as brought to an end 
by the yelping of the dogs back in the cane. Some- 
thing was certainly going on. Hounds bellowed with 
pain, and some, apparently keeping at safe distance 
from the bear, bellowed the treed note to the limit 
of their powers. No doubt the bear was a scrapping 
individual and whipped the dogs off. For soon the 
race was on again, only to terminate once more in 
a greater density of cane. 

What the horses were up against in a bear race I 
had no suspicion of before. The tall, close-growing 
cane that looked impenetrable to man or beast they 
forced against by the over-liberal application of long 
cruel spurs. At times they would get into such a 
position they could go no further. Then the riders 
would dismount and cut an opening against which 
the horses once more were forced. The punishment 
drew blood from some of the mounts, and others 
seemed ready to drop from exhaustion. But they 
were game animals and did their part well. Ap- 
parently the spirit of the hunt enthused them, so 
their wounds were but mere incidents of the chase. 

Once more from the sounds it was facile to note 
that the bear had whipped off the dogs. The race 
was on again. Presently it ended in deep, clamorous 
bayings, and everv dog sounded treed. Their voices 

ii6 



SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 

carried clearer and all the hunters felt sure that the 
bear had climbed for safety in a clearing or open 
space. To get to the quarry they forced their mounts 
on mercilessly, finally arriving at an opening in the 
cane of several acres. 

A sole dead sweet gum tree, bare of bark from top 
to bottom, stood in center of an opening in the cane- 
brake. It might have once been a clearing. Every 
hound aimed its voice at something near the top; 
every hunter sighted his eye in the same direction 
and simultaneously let out a deafening whoop. 
Near the top, close to a limb that extended north, 
a black bear was affixed and peered down with two 
wicked, beady eyes at the gathering. 

No doubt every one desired the honor of shooting. 
But the voice of Billy White interposed above the 
bedlam. From his deportment I knew that the 
honor rested with him, and nothing could take it 
from him. He commanded the hunters to stand 
back. Dropping on one knee, he took his long gun 
carefully from his shoulder, caressed it lovingly, 
then sighted it on the bear. Minutes seemed to 
elapse before the fatal trigger was pulled, but it was 
only a second or so. The roar of black powder re- 
verberated through the swamps. Only for a moment 
the bear looked down. He tried to climb still higher. 
But all at once his great frame stiffened. He clawed 
a few times to get a more secure hold, then suddenly 
his paws let go and he pitched to the ground very 
close to Nig. 

That was the last for a time I saw of the bear or 

117 



JIST HUNTIN' 

the hunters. As though propelled by the force of a 
mighty hurricane, my horse leaped through dogs and 
men and carried me at a dizzy gait through the cane. 
Holding my head close to his neck I did my best to 
shield it from brush and cane. Pulling to the limit 
of my strength on the reins I tried to stop Nig. It 
was useless. He continued as though a thousand 
bears were after him, heading straight with me 
towards Little River. 

There was no let-up to Nig's speed. On arriving 
close to the river, as the cane was less dense, he in- 
creased it. He had just started to leap a pile of 
dead timber near the river when he stopped almost 
in midair and came to earth with legs straightened 
out. The saddle gave way. I was shot off that 
horse as though propelled from a catapult, landing 
closer to a live, undomesticated black bear than even 
in my fondest dreams I had wished to be. 

I sprawled on all fours on the sand. In my flight 
my rifle had fallen from my hands and I saw it 
about ten feet from me. The bear had been feeding 
on refuse dogfish cast aside by some fisherman from 
his hoop nets. I do not know which seemed most 
surprised or frightened. But Nig did not wait to 
see. He backed off and turning bolted for the dens- 
est cane. 

The bear eyed me suspiciously, glared at the fish, 
then at me. I never moved from my position, though 
I wanted my rifle very much. No doubt there was 
something about me that did not appeal to Bruin; 
perhaps it was my longing glance at my rifle. But 

ii8 



SOUTHERN BEAR HUNTING 

evidently he had a premonition that I was not al- 
together a desirable acquaintance. Without the 
slightest warning he emitted a loud woof and rushed 
for a near-by brake of switch cane. 

Then only I came to my senses. I jumped for 
my rifle, lifted the safety and fired five times at the 
vanishing bear. 

The feel of the rifle revived my courage. I had 
no idea that my bullet had touched him. I reloaded 
it with its quota of .250 cartridges and started 
slowly in the brake. I could see no blood, though 
the tracks were plainly visible in the damp sand. 
Without taking in consideration direction or where 
the tracks would lead, I followed until I came to a 
sink in the land. Close to a log I discovered a big 
black object flattened out as though a big roller had 
gone over it. Closer investigation showed it was my 
bear. He was lying in a pool of blood. Three bullets 
had mushroomed in the lungs. 

At the same time I heard the bellow of native 
hounds in chase. They had hit the trail. Fifteen 
minutes later the entire bunch of hunters arrived 
on the scene in time to see me fighting the dogs away 
from my bear. But even the roar of Billy White 
commanding silence and the clamor of the hunters 
for their share could not rob me of my joy at the kill. 



119 



XIV 
The Giant Gobbler of Gunn Bluff 

"Seen a red-bone bitch 'roun' here?" asked a tall, 
attenuated individual astride a small red-colored 
mule. 

This surely must be Beanpole Williams, the 
famous turkey hunter, I was seeking. So positive 
was I of this from the description furnished me, I 
answered: "Come to think of it, I have. He is right 
now in my tent with his foot wrapped up — took him 
out of a fox trap, and was caring for him until I 
found an owner. Plucky dog, too. Say, are you 
Beanpole Williams?" 

"How'd yu'ns 'er guess hit?" he admitted in the 
strangest nasal falsetto, while he disentangled his 
long legs from the stirrups, placed his feet on the 
ground, and permitted his mule to walk out from 
under him. Beanpole was fully seven feet in height 
and apparently no wider than a good-sized hoe 
handle. 

"Oh," I flattered, "I've been wanting to find the 
best turkey hunter in the country to guide me and 
I was referred to a handsome, sturdy individual by 
the name of Beanpole Williams. Glad you came 
along; come in my tent. You are Beanpole Williams, 
aren't you?" 

"H-U yes. Sonny!" he admitted. "Les' see Drive." 

Then we entered my tent, where we found the 

I20 



THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 

perfectly contented Drive coiled up on my pile of 
blankets. Beanpole evidently strove to display his 
gratitude at the recovery of his hound. But no 
doubt he had expanded his vocabulary for the time 
being, though he shook my hand, hugged Drive and 
made me understand that he was willing to take me 
turkey hunting if I agreed to his terms, which after 
a long pause and much mental calculation he sub- 
mitted. 

"Recken forty cents a day 'nd grub wud be too 
much?" he queried expectantly. 

To this eagerly I submitted and accompanied 
Beanpole to his home across the ridge, where Bean- 
pole consulted a short, bulky damsel, with a face as 
brown as the forest-stricken post oak leaves under 
foot. She surely must have been pleased at his an- 
nouncement of my agreeing to his stiff terms, for 
the hard face melted into a smile before she went 
into the cabin and brought Beanpole his long single- 
barrel gun, kissed nine molasses-smeared children, 
kicked as many yelping hounds into submission on 
her reappearance, and directed her lord not to return 
until he had made two dollars. 

Because all varieties of acorns were plentiful, 
Beanpole and I camped at Dark Bay. Though 
signs were everywhere, for two days we saw no 
turkeys. A logging crew stopped at our camp and 
told us the biggest turkey that ever ranged the hills 
was "a-hangin' up 'roun' Gunn Bluff." They had 
seen him several times, but had been unable to get 
so much as a single shot at him, so wary was he. 

121 



JIST HUNTIN' 

In our canoe we pushed up the river that evening 
into the hollow below Gunn Bluff; Beanpole's in- 
evitable mule had followed like a dog along the bank. 
This famous turkey hunter proved to be an ex- 
tremely taciturn individual and seldom spoke except 
to let out his only expression, "H-11 yes, Sonny!" 
and something had to happen out of the ordinary 
before he uttered it. 

Early the following morning we sought the summit 
of the bluff and, as I faced east, watching the sun 
peeping pink over the pine tops. Beanpole, who was 
astride his mule, disengaged himself from the animal 
by merely standing upright, so the animal could 
walk out from under him, dropped to his knees and 
examined the leaf-carpeted ground. He turned over 
a number of leaves, and then suddenly startled me 
with his unexpected thin voice. 

"Wal, I de-clare!" he exclaimed, without turning 
to me. "Look-a-yander!" 

"Turkey tracks?" I asked. 

"He-11, yes. Sonny!" he shouted, " 'nd the tracks 
air the biggest I ever seed. Whoopee! Whoopee!" 

Falling to my knees, I examined the ground over 
which the upturned leaves had reposed. The im- 
prints of a turkey's foot were plainly visible, but 
such large ones that momentarily I could not be- 
lieve that they had been accomplished by any mem- 
ber of the turkey family. But every groove, ridge 
and structure of the foot was reproduced so distinctly 
I could doubt no longer. And then verification came 
almost immediately at a spot where ashes re- 

122 



THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 

mained from a former campfire. The giant gobbler 
of Gunn Bluff had used it for a dusting place. 

From that moment the giant gobbler became an 
obsession with us. For fear of frightening him from 
the vicinity we refrained from shooting other tur- 
keys which we soon began to behold in abundance. 
But we hunted that weary old gobbler for days and 
days, with no other reward than an occasional bit of 
evidence that he had been nearby. Came the time 
when much against my will I decided to give up 
this end of the rainbow hunt. I had lived turkey, 
talked turkey over and over again with my sole com- 
panion. Beanpole, and at last declared I would leave 
the following day. 

It was already late in the evening. Beanpole and 
I were in a small hickory bottom about to embark 
in my canoe. All at once I heard a flock of turkeys 
fly to roost midway of Gunn Bluff. They came in 
singles, pairs and trios. Just as I thought the last 
had crossed the river in the vanishing light, I ob- 
served an immense impalpable form sail across the 
river, then the crash of weighty pinions striking 
against the pines resounded far into the bottoms. 
That put a quietus on all my intentions of 
leaving. 

We returned to camp. Beanpole was happy. He 
showed it; once in a while he talked, whistled, and 
just before my eyes closed in sleep I observed him 
sitting by the fire, his singular expression concen- 
trated on the pine light. 

It did not seem as though I had slept ten minutes, 
123 



JIST HUNTIN' 

when I awoke and discovered the slim turkey hunter 
unceremoniously prodding me in the ribs with his 
large, heavy-shod foot. 

"What's the matter — woods on fire?" I questioned, 
rubbing my eyes. The fire had burned low. The 
cold air of the bottom cut like a knife as I cast aside 
my blanket. 

"Be sunup purty soon," vouchsafed Beanpole in a 
whisper. "Git reddy. Stow some of that thar 
coffee I made in them vitals of yourn. Hit'U waken 
yu'ns up, 'cause we'ns gotta git started quick." 

In the dark I never believed that I would achieve 
the ascent of those tremendous flint rocks. But 
with the pulling and jerking of the long-limbed one 
I did it. A hunter's miracle, perhaps; though I 
could not accomplish it again were all giant gobblers 
in the world the temptation. 

As though by instinct Beanpole bore due east. 
Other than by instinct no human being could have 
progressed through those dark thickets of bull pines 
and post oaks. My clothes became wet from copious 
perspiration. All at once Beanpole stopped. Over- 
head I could see stars, which cast down sufficient 
light so that I was able to note we were in an area 
which had once been a clearing. Also I realized we 
had made a detour and were again close by the river, 
as I could hear it chattering over the shoals like a 
flock of noisy Canada geese. 

"Squat down in this hyar buckbresh, 'nd don't 
move nary a bit 'till sunup!" directed the sage of the 
wilderness in a piping falsetto. 

124 



THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 

Obeying the command, in a short while I began 
to feel the cold. No longer could I do anything to 
keep me warm. Many times from sheer suffering 
and my cramped position I cursed myself for ever 
being led into a hunt at such an ungodly hour. I 
shook like a man in the throes of a malarial chill 
and vowed I never would hunt again if it neces- 
sitated undergoing such agony. But each time 
I gazed at the silent, uncomplaining woodsman I 
smothered my effort at utterance. 

When nature seemed no longer able to endure the 
grueling I listened and heard a band of timber 
wolves terminating their nightly frolic in a series 
of ear-splitting ululations. For a while the wilder- 
ness again took on its garb of serenity. Then at 
last a few small birds chirped and moved in the dry 
leaves on the trees. The east grew gray. Objects 
attained distinctiveness, and presently showed more 
plainly under the pink impress of approaching day. 
I beheld an old field in front of me. 

Beanpole remained stationary as ever. But 
presently I observed his mouth twitch in a homely 
grimace. He cast a knowing look at me, and then 
his piercing gray eyes turned expectantly for a sur- 
vey of the field. 

At first I was unable to observe anything unusual. 
But scanning more closely I saw a flock of turkeys 
run into a patch of buckbrush, scatter and feed. 

The native guarded me closely with his eyes to 
see if I would yield to temptation, for I glanced at 
my .22 hi-power. But every desire to succumb 

125 



JIST HUNTIN' 

to temptation was squelched by his forbidding 
look. 

All at once I descried two young gobblers back 
out of the brush and scurry across the field, as 
though influenced by something not altogether to 
their liking. The balance followed in their wake. 
I gazed directly at the buckbrush and the sumac 
adjoining. I saw nothing to remark. 

Immediately, after a cautioning gesture, the slim 
woodsman took a short pipe stem from his pocket 
and placed it in his mouth. "Keouk, Keouk, Keouk, 
Keouk, Keouk" sounded the cane over the frost- 
topped hills. Beanpole waited fully five minutes 
for a response, and when none came he repeated. 

"Keouk, Keouk," Beanpole resumed the plaintive 
sound. "Keouk, Keouk." 

This time the unmistakable note of a gobbler 
carried to our blind. 

At that moment I stared hard at the sumacs to 
my left, just as the sun cast its first warming glow 
on the earth. The king of all gobblers stepped forth, 
brilliant with scintillant copper sheen, as the full 
luminance of the sun lighted his majestic figure. He 
stood at his full height, craning for dangerous ob- 
jects and sounds, his great breast reflecting tints I 
never realized existed before. 

For an instant, so startled was I at his size and 
kingly posture, I was unable to appreciate that 
right before me was the object of my long and ardu- 
ous quest. 

Only for a second the giant stood in the open. He 

126 



THE GIANT GOBBLER OF GUNN BLUFF 

made a move all at once for a patch of tall plume 
grass on my right. 

Beanpole sounded softly the siren note. The 
gobbler gazed angrily around, his breast swelling 
with the indignation of disappointment. Detect- 
ing the false from the true he dashed for the screen- 
ing plume. 

Three times I discharged that hi-power .22, as 
fast as mortal man could function it. A thundering 
of flopping wings sounded across the field, and then 
I espied the long-legged one, running with all his 
might to the plume grass and disappear therein. 

For a second or two I experienced grave mis- 
givings, as I saw no more of Beanpole. But, still 
anxious to know my luck, I called out at the top of 
my voice: "Did I get him. Beanpole?" 

Then the hills resounded my exultant cheer, as 
Beanpole shrilled back in joy: 

"Hell yes. Sonny!" 



127 



XV 

Hunting Ducks on a Swift Waterway 

"Don't reckon I ever heard about them, much 
less seen one," commented my guide as he studied 
my question. "Canvasback ducks, canvasback 
ducks — is that the right name?" 

"Yes," I replied quickly, and repeated after him, 
"canvasbacks." 

"Nope, I never heard of them out this way," my 
guide informed me, scratching his big gray head to 
encourage reminiscence. "Nope, was raised on this 
river, and ther hain't been no canvasback or canvas- 
headed ducks ever come this way." 

"Oh, well," I remarked optimistically, "we'll get 
some ducks, anyhow, between here and our stop- 
ping place. The river looks good to me the entire 
route, even if it is a swift one." 

"Yu'U get ducks, alright," returned my guide, 
with cynical inflection to his last words, "if you kin 
hit 'em. But as far as them tent — canvasback ducks: 
I can't promise a one." 

My selection of guide had fallen on an old water 
rat, Tom Bigbee, who knew the river and its in- 
numerable bends far better than the average city 
dweller knows his streets. The wilderness appealed 
to me, as well as the day's prospects, though it 

128 




Tender and True 



HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 

promised nothing but jump and flight shooting, the 
most entertaining sport that can be offered the 
wildfowler. 

It was not long after I embarked in the long duck 
boat that I realized I was up against a difi^erent 
proposition in shooting than I had so far tried. 

"Thought you could hit 'em!" laughed Tom, with 
a critical twinkle to his left optic, as I missed cleanly 
a big flock of mallards that simply spewed out, one 
by one, from a mossy pocket in the backwater at 
the end of a rapid. "You never touched a feather. 
If we're going to have duck for supper, you just 
gotta do better'n that!" 

The old riverman's remarks were received in good 
spirit. My shortcomings were felt. I was up against 
another form of jump shooting, which was totally 
dissimilar to anything I could conjure from past 
experience. But in every way it had attractions, 
for shooting from a fast running boat was a novelty 
and assured great sport. 

At Tom's advice I reflected and studied condi- 
tions. The sport had an irresistible appeal, if I 
mastered it. Our approach on the ducks was swift 
and sudden. Invariably they towered and bolted 
upstream as soon as they flushed. 

On reaching the subsidence of the next rapid my 
score suff^ered another miss, but I elevated myself a 
bit in Tom's esteem when I killed a lone mallard 
that started to drop into a pocket on our right. He 
fell stone dead, though the shot was a long one. 
Then I witnessed a remarkable achievement on the 

129 



JIST HUNTIN' 

part of my guide; how to pick up a duck on a swift 
waterway when a boat runs at full speed. 

Tom advised me that at the termination of the 
next rapid was a round pond on our right which 
always contained ducks, if any were on the river. 
He suggested my getting out the boat and walking 
them up from the gravel bar. But mentally I had 
carefully covered my shooting deficiencies. So I 
refused, and told him that I would either solve the 
river's shooting riddle from a boat or quit. 

The guide edged the boat toward the gravel bar, 
in this manner keeping our advance screened by the 
interposing willows. As we reached the neighbor- 
hood of the upper part of the pond, the suck of the 
angry stream carried us out and raced with us to 
the lower end. 

The pond was full of mallards. As they turned 
I stood up and faced upstream. With two barrels 
I brought down a pair of lusty mallards. Then, 
loading quickly, I knocked down a single hen wid- 
geon that had bestowed her company on the mal- 
lards. She spiraled a while in the air with out- 
stretched wings, and, to our surprise, fell in the boat. 

All at once the improvement in my shooting struck 
Tom. 

"You can hit 'em, if you just try!" he compli- 
mented, " 'nd if you keep up that lick we'll soon have 
a boat load." 

And Tom was right, as he always was. At the 
very next pocket I repeated my performance on a 
flock of pintails, which were feeding close to a shoal 

130 



HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 

and almost permitted us to run the boat in their 
midst. 

"Them's the kind!" Tom declared. "They're the 
best eating ducks a-going, though it's pretty late for 
them. Some fellers likes other kinds. But give me 
a fat sprig, or pintail, as you calls them, and it can't 
be beat, in my mind, when it comes to good eatings!" 

Through years of duck shooting I have never had 
occasion to dispute Tom's assertion. As a food 
delicacy a real fat pintail can not be surpassed by 
any other duck — not even the famed canvasbacks, 
so exalted by a horde of epicures. 

"Do you see ahead that big raft of blackjacks?" 
Tom called my attention. "We'll be just in on them 
before they ever gets real wise." 

Tom paddled into the bank and in a few moments 
constructed a blind of willows and sycamores in 
front of the boat. 

"Notice them blackjacks," said Tom, "they are 
in a reach of still water. When we get within two 
hundred yards of it the river runs at an awful clip. 
Till we get to that fast water we'll drag along so 
slow they'll think it's a-going to take us a heap of 
time to get near them. As soon as we hits the fast 
water, we'll go like Old Nick, and we'll be upon them 
before they know it. All you do, is lay down out 
of sight and keep still." 

Presently I was treated to an exhibition of Tom 
Bigbee's knowledge of the river and of ducks. He 
made every effort to retard the progress of the boat, 
dragging his long paddle and pushing the boat from 

131 . 



JIST HUNTIN' 

bank to bank to convey the impression it was a 
mighty slow-going affair. All the while the scaups 
observed us, many times with wings cupped almost 
standing on the water, as though prepared to fly. 
Doubtless the eelgrass and moss beds provided them 
with food in abundance, and they were loath to 
leave the spot; for they kept constantly milling 
around, yet watching our craft. 

For twenty minutes Tom kept the boat going back 
and forth, but all the while imperceptibly approaching 
the suck of the rapids. It seemed hours to me, and 
I wondered if he would ever accelerate the pace. 
The ducks began to lose their customary wariness, 
evidently confident they could appraise our speed 
and distance in time to take flight in safety. I was 
just about to question the boatman's dilatory tac- 
tics, as they had begun to prove very tantalizing, 
when all at once I sensed the boat being drawn in 
the rapids. Then it shot down the river like a 
frightened deer. 

"Get ready, now!" Tom whispered. 

Before I had time to answer, we were among the 
ducks. A black cloud of seething pinions lifted 
from the river. Some of the ducks I could have 
touched with the end of my gun, so bewildered they 
were at our presence. In their confusion they re- 
minded me of ducks attracted to a light at night 
during a sleet storm. 

Twice I fired into the biggest bunch that got 
straightened upstream. Then I reloaded rapidlv 
and had two more shots. 

132 



HUNTING DUCKS ON SWIFT WATERWAY 

"Seven!" cried the boatman, "and, if you'd had 
a repeater, Lord knows how many more you'd 
killed. They must have been at least four hundred 
blackjacks in that bunch!" 

To me there appeared to be thousands and, though 
Tom praised my execution, the number of my kill 
did not come up to my expectations. Those fright- 
ened ducks were so packed together it did not seem 
as if there were room for a single No. 6 shot to pass 
between them. 

For several hours we floated with varying success. 
There was a fascination to the shooting which no 
other duck hunt had presented. The stealthy ap- 
proach of the craft down the crystal-clear water- 
way under the guidance of a master paddler, to- 
gether with the transcendent beauty of the sur- 
rounding hills in their gorgeous fall dress, were 
treats beyond appraisal. At all times the shooting 
was different. Often, when I felt certain of killing, 
I missed, and the reverse was as frequent. It never 
was an easy task to align the gun properly on those 
upstream-bent ducks, while the boat vibrated and 
sped swiftly through the rapids. 

Elsewhere than at the pockets the ducks were 
seldom found, especially those adjoining the rapids. 
The scaups and one flock of mallards were the only 
ones flushed midstream. With all the difficulty I 
encountered in getting on the birds, I made a good 
killing and a varied one, at that. Each pocket held 
a different kind, though mallards predominated. 

At last we floated to a long reach of quiet water 

133 



JIST HUNTIN' 

as the sun left the western hills, shimmering with the 
pink of parting day. Tom was calling attention to 
the only hard paddling of the trip. He had to paddle 
two miles steadily until our landing place, as there 
was very little current. To make the labor lighter 
he whistled, but suddenly silenced as his eyes rested 
on the darkening Southern bluffs. 

"Git down quick! Git down quick!" commanded 
Tom. "See 'em?" 

"No — where?" I asked, immediately obeying. 

"They are swinging along the right bluff" — that's 
why you can't see them. They are purty low, too." 

Even at the distance of a mile away I saw them 
break from the shadows of the bluff to the middle of 
the river. Large specks now, as they were only half a 
mile — then larger as they bore midstream, racing 
low with tremendous speed. Incredibly swift, 
whistling like boys, they were almost on us as they 
swung to one side at the sight of the boat. Then 
only I classified them and gave them a big lead. 

Two drake canvasbacks sent up a spray of water. 

"Canvasbacks at last, Tom!" I shouted. "Two 
canvasbacks." 

The rest of the flock disappeared in the vanishing 
light faster than they had come. 

Tom paddled over to the ducks, picked them up 
and eyed them carefully. 

"Are them canvasbacks?" he queried. 

"That's what they are, Tom." 

"Well, if they are canvasbacks," he replied, "they 
are the first I ever saw on this or any other river." 

134 



XVI 

Hunting Whitetails With Josh 

"Cum lissen' to that houn'/' cried Josh from the 
top of Phillips' Bluff. "He's shore gotta voice like 
a fifty-year-ole bull!" 

"That dog has a loud enough voice, alright," I 
grudgingly admitted as I reached Josh's side, "but 
it is his speed that gets me. Why that pack behind 
have all they can do to keep within hearing dis- 
tance!" 

"By shot!" Josh broke in as the tonal strivings 
of the hound showed a different trend. "That thar 
houn' aint a-runnin' no red fox — he's ater a deer. 
Say, let's run down to Yaller Bank 'nd head 
him." 

"Not on your life. Old Timer!" I protested vehe- 
mently. "There is to be no killing deer in front of 
hounds when I am along. The law is against it, 
and, as far as we are concerned, it is going to be 
obeyed." 

"Which?" the little old weather-beaten man asked, 
chagrin showing in the many grooves of his counte- 
nance. 

"It is against the law to run deer with hounds, 
and I am one who is going to see that the law is not 
infracted." I tried to make this clear as possible, 

135 



JIST HUNTIN' 

and that I neither considered it sportsmanlike nor 
good policy, considering that wardens were liable to 
appear any moment. 

"But he's shore to cross the river at Yaller Bank!" 
Josh tried to tempt further, but, seeing I could not 
be persuaded, he accompanied me to camp, con- 
tinually referring to the bellowing hound's voice 
and his positive knowledge of the gigantic propor- 
tions of the deer. 

Next day broke clear and cold, the first hour the 
white frost making the big woods appear like a land 
of many decorated Christmas trees. Josh and I 
followed the windings of Bog Hollow on back into 
the Irish Wilderness, working so skillfully as we 
knew how every bit of the cover and the shifts of the 
wind. But before noon we parted, Josh returning 
to camp. 

In the afternoon while crossing over a chain of 
hills I discovered many signs of deer, but was unable 
to get sight of any. One jumped in the hazels, then 
bounded into the tall plumes and sedge; and just 
for luck's sake I pumped my .303 in that direction. 
No hit was registered, as I could plainly hear it jump- 
ing until it passed over the summit of the hill. 

After I found that I was on the south slope of 
Gooseneck Bluff, rather fatigued I determined to 
cross the altitude in order to shorten my journey 
to camp. When nearly to the crest I heard a com- 
motion in the mingling of flint rock, bullpines, sedge 
and post oaks. Rather noisy for a deer, I thought, 
considering the fact, too, that only a while before I 

136 



HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 

had remarked the snap of a hi-power rifle toward 
the north. 

Stalking further, I noticed some disturbance in 
a clump of post oaks. Instantly I was on the alert. 
I perceived the form of a deer in the brush as though 
it was standing on its hind legs and browsing on 
some tidbit at quite a height. 

There was only left to me now to distinguish the 
sex. If it was a buck I stood a reasonably sure chance 
of making a kill. 

Taking advantage of each tree I drew closer. 
Presently I noted an antler-crowned head reach up. 
I raised my rifle. The sight had almost rested on 
the buck's left shoulder, when a tan color, that did 
not well conform with a deer, startled me. I nearly 
dropped my rifle in my anxiety to get my finger 
away from the trigger, to shift to safety. 

"Say, you fool! What in the blazes do you mean!" 
I called at the top of my voice. 

"Why — I was trying to hang this deer," a man's 
voice called back to me. 

Brimming with anger, I ran to him and said: 
"You are lucky; in a half a second longer I would 
have killed you!" Finally, seeing anger was of no 
service, I did my best to show that city hunter the 
folly he had been guilty of; though for some time 
he could not understand that it was mighty risky 
business trying to hang a deer by the horns in cover 
when there were hunters in the woods; it could only 
result in drawing a hunter's fire, and a deer would 
not bleed in that manner. 

137 



/ JIST HUNTIN' 

/ His explanation in return was, that he wanted 
to hang it out of reach of wolves until he could find 
his guide to tote it back to camp. 
/ Too unnerved to enjoy the day further, I returned 
to the companionship of Josh. Dancing gleefully, 
\ he greeted me effusively. 
/' "Say, seed a ghost?" he asked. 

"Not exactly." Then I explained the incident. 

"Yu'ns shore oughta teched him up a bit — shot 
a toe offen him or sumthin' — brokj his hide jist for 
being sich a durned fool," couns led Josh, as only 
he could. "Say, but I seed the bi^rgest buck in the 
hills, up on Trotter Bluff. Missed hmi three times — 
he got in the bresh so quick." 

This was good news and I acknowledged it ac- 
cordingly. 

"If we'uns only had that houn', we shore could 
put him in the river erbout Hargis shoal!" the little 
old man declared. 

"Forget the hound. Josh. But, if you start that 
buck for me tomorrow, you can call me Grandpa 
three times in succession." 

"Whew, three dollars! I'll shore do hit. For I'm 
erbout sartin where the ole feller beds." With Josh, 
"Mister Johnnie" signified a loan of two bits, "Uncle 
Johnnie," fifty cents, and "Grandpa" never less than 
a dollar. 

Notwithstanding Josh's declaration the night be- 
fore that he would be able to start the buck, he 
failed miserably. All the beds he pointed to in the 
ubiquitous sedge grass showed to the touch no 

138 



HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 

warmth of a recent occupant. So again we decided 
to separate, the old rascal promising to be in camp 
long before sundown, as well, too, that if he heard 
my rifle he would respond to the sound. 

For the reason of having seen old tracks the day 
before I determined to hunt over the same ground. 
The wind was blowing from the west. I beat against 
it up a short valley that abruptly terminated in a 
chaos of big lichen-covered boulders, their immen- 
sity somewhat concealed by small bull pines, plume 
and scattered post oaks. If ever there was an ideal 
place created for an old buck to bed, this was it. 

Hardly had the thought gained conception when 
I heard a big deer jump thirty yards in advance of 
me. Twice I missed it, when I observed it climbing 
a slope and was glad of my goose egg, as it turned 
out to be a fine big doe. 

Still I worked the cover, obdurate about climbing 
the confronting altitude. Looking up to my left 
in order to appraise the possibility of a facile ascent, 
to my astonishment I beheld a tremendous buck 
going up a draw two hundred yards away. At first 
I was unable to see him well. He hugged the draw 
closely, almost creeping like a rabbit in his effort at 
concealment. My shots at the doe had started him. 

Carefully waiting, though not elevating the sight, 
as he came into better view near the summit I fired. 
He stopped, looked around. Again I fired. He 
bounded sideways with drooping flag, then stag- 
gered. Once more I fired. He went to his knees, 
arose almost as quickly and vanished before I could 

139 



JIST HUNTIN' 

place another shot. That I had scored two shots 
I was positive. In what part of the body I had yet 
no means of ascertaining. But I was sure he would 
not carry far two soft-nosed .303 bullets. 

At the top of my speed I ran for the summit. But 
the difficulties of the rough ascent retarded me 
much. At no time is broken flint rock the best 
going — certainly not when on a slanting hillside 
that has a perilous pitch. Finally out of breath I 
reached the spot where I knew I had recorded a hit 
— if not more than one. The blood had splattered 
the hazels and bonnet leaves with tell-tale crimson 
blotches. 

For a while it was easy to trail the buck. But, 
after following some distance a trail which led into 
post oaks and sedge, the blood ceased flowing and 
I lost the course completely. I circled many times 
without success, though time and again I returned 
to the starting point, followed and observed the 
trail vanish once more. 

Immediately I concluded to hunt near the river. 
It was impossible to reconcile myself to the loss of 
the fine specimen. No doubt he made for the river 
and dropped near one of the favorite crossings in 
the moss and cress-covered bays. I searched stren- 
uously a number of well-known bays; but no sign 
of the deer greeted my eyes. 

When I was about to give up the quest as hope- 
less, the west wind flung down a welcome sound 
from Phillips' Bluff. It was that of a self-hunting 
hound uncertain of trail, until all at once to my 

140 



HUNTING WHITETAILS WITH JOSH 

unspeakable joy a strike was registered and as 
quickly followed the staccato of a sight race. 

Seemingly the hills became alive with dogs, but 
above all the bedlam I could distinguish that big 
hound, so dear to Josh, leading easily. Shortly 
the race terminated abruptly close to the river with 
the baying of the dogs, which was constantly aug- 
mented by the arrival of the slower-footed ones, 
all determined to make the kill. 

That bunch of potlickers had started my deer 
and were sure to tear him to pieces. How I ascended 
the bluff in the little time I did is beyond my powers 
of explanation. Enraged at the pack, I was deter- 
mined to prevent their pulling down the deer. 
When I arrived at the scene I noted there was still 
time to prevent the slaughter. The deer was yet 
on his legs, very close to a ledge above the river. 

The posture of that deer was one of majestic 
militancy and supreme contempt. He stood at 
bay not more that a few feet from the edge of the 
cliff, defying the dogs as the restless river like a 
long silver serpent coursed rapidly three hundred 
feet below. Blood gushed from his nostrils. From 
two holes on the left side it spouted out afresh. 
Evidently those dogs had had earlier experience 
with a wounded buck, for they kept well outside of 
the range of the deer's hoofs and antlers. 

While the dogs waited impatiently, the deer 
stood like a veritable monarch of the pine woods, 
fighting off each rush of the pack. Once the big 
hound tried to close in. A thrust from the warrior's 

141 



JIST HUNTIN' 

head sent him to ground, howling dismally from 
the long wound inflicted in his side. 

Much as I had sought to kill, had there been 
some way to save his life, I would have done so. 
But I decided to end his misery at once. I drew a 
bead for his heart. Then I saw the front legs 
spread apart, shaking violently, and expected the 
game creature to fall. 

All at once with a sudden accession of strength 
he stood up straight. Seemingly his bloodshot eyes 
were balls of fire. For the first time he seemed to 
be apprised of my presence. His nostrils still gush- 
ing blood, he eyed me closely as though prepared to 
charge. Again the limbs trembled. Momentarily he 
flung a glance at the snarling pack, then righting 
himself, he leaped off^ the bluff. 

As Josh had heard the baying of the dogs he was 
across the river digging into the little gravel bar 
long before my arrival. He came at my call and 
paddled me over in his johnboat. The deer was 
buried to its shoulders in the small gravel. Both 
legs were broken in many places. The skull was 
crushed beyond saving, as well as the antlers. 

"He's shore a cracker, ain't he. Mister Johnnie?" 
Josh said, viewing the kill with pride. Then, suddenly 
recalling his own affairs, he scraped his feet on the 
gravel and declared: "If hit hadn't been for that 
ere big houn' yu'ns never would got him — would you. 
Grandpa?" 

Laughing, I counted out three silver dollars and 
presented them to Josh. 

142 



XVII 

The Hillbilly's Guest 

"Whoa, Josh!" I yelled my mightiest at the little 
Ozarker, as he tried to conceal himself in a grove of 
post oaks by the roadside. "Come on over here!" 

No response came to my call. 

The mere fact that I had been obliged to pay a 
small note for Josh, for some time had made him 
invisible. Willingly I had endorsed it, and when he 
failed to meet the obligation I paid it without 
quibbling. It was not an unusual occurrence on my 
part to act as security for small sums. Once in a 
while he paid one. But now what annoyed me most 
was Josh's aloofness, for I wanted him for a trip up 
Current River. If by chance I saw him at a distance, 
he feigned deafness, inability to see me, and always 
acted as if he were in great haste. 

"Come on out of there. Josh!" I called once more, 
and wheeled my horse as though to ride at him. 
"You got to go hunting with me or I'll ride — " 

"Wal, I declare, if that haint you. Mister John- 
nie!" At the imminent risk of my sorrel tramping 
him. Josh stepped from the cover and lied amazingly 
well. "At fust sight I didn't know yu'ns. I thought 
hit was Bill Hancock, and I didn't want him to see 
me, 'cause — 'cause- — " 

"Forget Bill, and tell the truth," I advised the old 

143 



JIST HUNTIN' 

man. "I paid that note off, alright, and I have been 
searching for you during the last two weeks, to go 
up the river with me." 

"Wal, of all the things in the world, I done forgot 
that note 'till jist now!" Josh once more resorted to 
exclamatory exaggeration, interspersed with prom- 
ises of remunerating me at some near date. 

When I told that little Ozarker not to worry about 
the note and told him it was settled forever, quickly 
he agreed to start with me the next day; and as 
proof of his sincerity borrowed two dollars, though 
he had vaguely hinted he was in possession of enough 
money to pay the note. 

On the day destined for our start I went to the 
river and bailed out our long, spacious johnboat. 
Then I went up in town in quest of my irresponsible 
Ozarker, whom I had sent for supplies. As some imp 
of mischief invariably hugged him closely, and be- 
cause he had been gone so long, I felt positive it 
was again on his trail. 

Across from the post office I beheld Josh. At- 
tached to his waist was a stout lead, and at its ter- 
mination was the largest and most ill-favored black- 
and-tan hound it had ever been my displeasure to gaze 
at. In his right hand Josh balanced a long single- 
barrel shotgun. The barrel was no less than forty- 
five inches in length. Had I not known the strength 
of the Ozarker I would never have credited him with 
ability to handle it. Josh was in his usual dress of 
dirty overalls, the color of which was impossible to 
designate, and a faded blue shirt that, from constant 

144 




¥-. ^^,ti:d.--,-^3aet'i 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

wear and accumulations of grime and grease, ad- 
mirably served the purpose of resisting weather and 
being impervious to rain. In the coldest weather 
he added no more garments. He vowed that he was 
comfortable and was very sensitive to any sug- 
gestion to the contrary. 

"Where in the world did you get that hound?" 
I asked Josh in surprise and anger. 

"Recken yu'ns haint seen him before?" Josh 
stammered and explained enigmatically. "I jist 
borrowed him from a feller going to yon side of the 
river. Let me make you 'quainted with Mister " 

At this juncture to my amazement a stranger 
stepped forth and offered his hand. He was tall, 
very thin, big glasses covered his very pale eyes. His 
garb was a bit startling, as it had been conceived by 
some tailor in the East as an apology for his ignorance 
of what constitutes a serviceable hunting garment. 

"Your most interesting friend here," he said in 
a thin voice, "has invited me to accompany you on 
a hunting trip." 

"You invited him, Josh?" I questioned the irre- 
sponsible Ozarker, with some display of anger. 

"Let me explain," interposed the newcomer, as I 

observed his child-pink cheeks and white hands 

which, like his clothes, had never been subjected to 

exposure out of doors. "I heard Mr. Josh was a 

capable guide, and asked him if I could share in the 

party. I am an old, experienced hunter and, if I 

am not un de trop, I should like very much to go with 

>> 
you. 

145 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Trophy won't count," declared Josh and, as 
though disclosing an important communication, he 
continued: "he's my guest. I done invited him to go 
'long at five dollars a day 'nd him to pay his part of 
the grub!" 

At this announcement I knew that the imp of 
mischief that loved so well to inflict its presence on 
Josh was in full working order, right in our midst, 
too! And I believe that simultaneously the immense 
hound sensed the same thing, for he wanted to 
attack the misfit, had not our combined strength 
prevented it. 

In a little while I found time for speech and dis- 
covered the newcomer bore the name of Percy 
Rushton Rushton. I was an Ozarker by adoption 
and had to abide by the rules of long residence. 
There was only one thing to do: make the best of it; 
so I politely invited Percy to make one of our party. 
But I could easily fancy without mental exaggera- 
tion a humorous, realistic, mental picture of what 
would ultimately take place between that ill-matched 
pair. 

After commanding Josh to get together his guest's 
belongings and to follow with him immediately, I 
went to our boat landing. 

I had all our light outfit packed when Josh, Percy 
and the wagon hauling his property arrived. It 
appeared to me that they had been a long time com- 
ing. Josh was perched on top, proclaiming loudly 
and shrilly in song his joy. The hound was striv- 
ing his utmost to get at the guest, who rode gin- 

146 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

/ 

gerly on the seat and crouched close to the sleepy 
driver. 

"Whoopee! Whoopee!" Josh sounded the hill cry 
joyously, while descending from the wagon after 
first knocking the villainous hound into submission 
with the butt of his gun. "Behave your fool self — 
I'll shore bust yu'ns if yu' don't!" 

Had Percy Rushton Rushton been bound for the 
wilds of Africa he could not have been more generous 
nor more inconsistent in his outfitting. He had 
high-power rifles — enough cartridges to last a trip 
around the world — dufile bags galore, whose contents 
afterward proved sufficient to stock a village store. 
It was evident that Percy was well pleased with 
himself. 

"This is a stunning shooting garment, isn't it?" 
he asked, admiring his thin figure, though failing to 
observe the incongruities of dress. He looked more 
like an Alpine mountain climber than a hunter. 
He solely lacked an alpenstock and a feather in his 
dinky soft hat to complete the illusion. That pink, 
childish face, with the mere smear of a strawish 
yellow moustache, was too much for me to view with 
anything but a ludicrous emotion. No wonder 
Josh's hound developed a villainous antipathy toward 
him! 

"Would you believe it," he went on to explain, 
with a giggle that emitted a strong odor of a bever- 
age that Josh loved well, "this is my first trip in 
your country? But I have roughed it in the wildest 
places. I have killed big game until I became tired 

147 



JIST HUNTIN' 

of the sport, and since I have become acquainted with 
that quaint, interesting Mister Josh, I know I am 
going to love your country. I know you will like 
me, for I am the real thing in wild life. Won't you 
have a wee drappie?" 

Paying no attention to the proffered silver flask, 
I had to get away so laughter would not escape me, 
I helped Josh pack the roomy boat. Then I just 
reflected, if Josh's guest kept plying him with liquor 
and followed him closely during his stay in the Irish 
Wilderness where we were bound, of roughing he 
would have a plenty! 

Soon everything was ready for the long, strenu- 
ous, grueling, upstream going on the swift river. 
Josh was master of the long, iron-shod, push paddle. 
He took the stern to guide the craft, while with a 
long pole I worked from the bow end. Frail and 
aged as the Ozarker looked in his tattered clothes, 
long hair and untrimmed, rat-like whiskers, he was 
as spry as a boy: his muscles of tempered spring 
steel, and he pushed the boat up the rapids at a good 
pace. 

In the first rapid our initial misfortune occurred — 
or to be exact Josh's and his guest's. On top of his 
pile of obese duflie bags we had stationed Rushton, 
both for his personal comfort and to balance the 
boat. Without any preparatory announcement 
that vile hound left his bed at the Ozarker's feet, 
made a single leap at the Easterner and grabbed his 
left leg in his huge jaws. At the time Rushton was 
taking a bottle of whiskey from a case. In the melee 

148 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

the entire stock of his whiskey landed in the rapids 
and sank immediately. 

Before Josh made the slightest attempt to help, 
he watched the fate of the whiskey. Old river man 
that he was, he knew it was beyond recovery. The 
Easterner squealed like a stuck pig. 

"Hold 'er steady. Mister Johnnie!" Josh sang out, 
"while I pries that houn' offen my guest." 

I pushed my pole with all my weight into the 
yielding gravel. The boat held. Josh went to the 
rescue. He stared amusedly a while, then without 
comment knocked the hound senseless with the 
paddle. Whereupon he pulled it under the stern 
seat and resumed poling as though only an ordinary 
occurrence had marred our progress. 

Fortunately the big hound had a better grasp on 
Rushton's trousers than his anatomy. But Percy 
was now pale and I was prone to reason that he 
recovered his poise more from Josh's absolute in- 
difference than from anything I could have said to 
console him. 

"Any danger of hydrophobia — blood poisoning?" 
queried Percy. 

"Not while your skin's full of red-eye," assured 
Josh. 

"I'm glad that whiskey is gone!" I declared vehe- 
mently. "Perhaps Josh will keep his eye on the 
crazy hound instead of that case." 

"He wuz jist a playin'," Josh returned in apology. 
"They hain't no hahm to him." 

"Isn't Mister Josh the quaintest and most origi- 
149 



JIST HUNTIN' 

nal character in the world?" commented the unwise 
easterner. "I just admire so much his natural, un- 
sophisticated ways." '■ 

Natural, unsophisticated ways! Josh! Too angry 
for coherent utterance, I expended my choler on the 
pole. 

With a big, thick blanket covering him, Percy 
coiled himself on top of the outfit, away from access 
by the hound. There he slept the remainder of the 
trip. Despite the alcoholic impost on Josh, he 
worked steadily. The strength of the little old man 
was marvelous; he was tireless — always poling 
along splendidly; no matter what the impediment or 
the vagaries of the stream, he kept on with auto- 
matic precision. 

Late in the day the johnboat glided into the bank 
close to our camp site. A cold, drenching rain fell, 
though it affected the Ozarker in no untoward man- 
ner. He refused a coat while the Eastern big-game 
hunter had recourse to a plenitude of waterproof 
garments. I was tired from my shoulders down to 
my feet. 

But Josh worked fast and soon had everything 
under the cover of a big rock shelf in the overhang- 
ing bluff. It protected us well. The Ozarker laughed, 
shouted and danced while gleefully he prepared 
supper. His guest had been remarkably silent 
since his adventure with the hound. But Josh began 
to show him some attention and he became then 
more like a human. 

Supper over. Josh stepped from the shelter and 

150 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

remarked that the rain had ceased. Later I observed 
him whisper to Percy, who had finished his attack 
on his second duck, which I had shot enroute. 
Something that crinkled and much resembled paper 
money passed from his to the Ozarker's hand. 

"I'm gwine up to Dave Gideon's," Josh reported, 
with a side wink at his guest. "I wants to see him 
erbout drivin' deer with them houn's of his." 

As I made no objection, Josh disappeared in the 
darkness, and by his whistling and singing I knew he 
was pursuing a path along the bluff. Darkness had 
no terrors for Josh — nor anything else! 

The Easterner seeing that Josh's hound was se- 
curely fastened under another shelter of rock, and 
quite a distance from us, began to talk while he un- 
packed his outfit. All the conversation so far in- 
dulged in had been with the Ozarker. Evidently 
he did not consider me much of a factor in the hunt, 
though I had been the organizer. 

Rushton had no less than five high-power rifles 
of the most modern type. As he drew each from its 
case he had a narrative associated with it, which he 
had to tell. A hunter is sometimes sentimental, 
often critical, always observant. In the latter class 
I arrayed myself. 

"This Mannlicher," said Percy, doing his best to 
impress me, "is a wonder. When I was in, ah — 
ah — Canada — yes, southern Canada, at fifteen hun- 
dred yards I killed a caribou. It never moved a 
step after I shot it!" 

"Remarkable!" I exclaimed. But I did not add 

151 



JIST HUNTIN' 

that the rifle showed no usage, and the owner dis- 
played obvious unfamiliarity with the handling of 
the arm and the functioning of the bolt. Then, too, 
his killing caribou in southern Canada — in June as 
he afterwards stated — exhibited a knowledge of the 
habits of game and laws for its protection on a par 
with his acquaintance with the Mannlicher. 

"I sure wish I had been with you," I said. Then 
"for God's sake, man, keep the end of that Savage 
away from my belly!" He was pointing directly at 
me a Savage .250, which he had no more conception 
about operating than Josh's big hound. 

"Mind you," he continued, still unaware of any 
faux pas and trying to impress me with his pale 
eyes, "with this rifle I killed four deer in one shot. 
They were all in a line when I fired!" 

"The h-11 you did!" I was about to exclaim, 
unable longer to stand the pressure of his mendacity. 
But Josh's arrival with lanky Dave Gideon and his 
noisy pack saved me from telling Percy my opinion 
of his statements. 

All at once bedlam broke loose. Josh's hound 
slipped his collar and tore into Dave's pack. In 
alarm Percy dropped his precious rifle and strove 
to do the impossible by exerting his utmost efforts 
to climb the perpendicular bluff". Had not Dave 
and Josh seized the big hound there would have been 
no hounds in condition for the morning's hunt. It 
required both the natives' strength to secure the 
dog and mine to prevent the Easterner from running 

152 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

right into the river, for in the darkness he was 
headed that way when I caught him. 

As usual, Josh cackled at the hounds' belligerency, 
and then stormed at him for his attitude toward his 
guest. Dave, taking a seat at the fire next to Percy, 
was just recovering from his terror. 

At which I was most vexed I did not know, and 
alternately cursed the hound, Josh, and his guest 
as my eyes rested on them. Finally, gaining nothing 
by it, I, too, took a seat by the fire. 

For an instant Josh sidled into the bushes and 
returned bearing an immense demijohn. I was aware 
of the contents and soon Percy was to learn. I had 
passed the stage of interference. My mind was made 
up; Josh could do as he pleased with his guest, but 
on the morrow I would efface myself from their 
company. 

On seeing the demijohn, Percy's eyes shone 
brightly. 

Taking a tin cup from the outfit. Josh poured it 
full of the straw-colored liquor which the demijohn 
contained. The odor of semi-sour, fresh corn husks 
prevailed. It was a favorite beverage of the Ozarker. 
He proffered the cup to the Easterner. He accepted 
it. 

"My!" Percy smacked his lips joyously after 
the first taste, then he drank the entire contents. 
"This is very good. . . . very good. It is so 
mild I don't think it would hurt anybody, would it 
Mister Josh?" 

153 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Wud'nt hurt a flea," assured the native. "Take 
another, Mister Guest, oh — I means — Mister — oh, 
have another." 

"Rushton," Percy assisted, seeing Josh unable 
to handle his proper designation. He drank another 
cup and addressed me. "How in the world do they 
make this delicious, mild beverage?" 

"Tell him. Josh." I passed the answer to the 
Ozarker. Josh grinned sheepishly, which I trans- 
lated into: "Is it safe to tell him what it is?" 

I nodded my head. 

"Wal," Josh began, after drenching Dave and 
himself with a cup. "They takes pure white cohn, 
'nd they sets hit outen the moonlight near a cold 
spring for three nights." The Ozarker paused, 
looked at me, then observing I made no sign of inter- 
ference, he rejoined: "That's all ther's to hit. What 
yu'ns a drinking is the skimmings that fohms on the 
stuff. The moon makes the skimmings from the 
dew. That's why they calls hit moonshine, 'nd 
mountain dew!" 

To escape being a party to further deception, 
I went under the big ledge of rock and spread out 
my blankets, then lying down I covered my body 
and for a long time watched the celebrants. 

Soon Gideon succumbed to the potency of the 
mountain dew. He moved a little way from the 
fire and, coiling himself among his pack of dogs, he 
fell asleep. 

From my bedding I viewed Josh and his guest. 
Between the two the cup traveled frequently. Josh 

154 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

danced, sang, told tales of the hills and vowed ever- 
lasting devotion to his guest. In a thin voice Percy 
made a feeble bluff at singing; then seeing that he 
was not a success, he reverted to his old fondness 
for relating tales about his wonderful hunts. The 
last I remember was that I saw the two with their 
arms around each other's necks and Percy was 
slaughtering tigers in India. 

Two hours before daybreak I awoke. The pine 
logs were down to mere hissing embers. Neither 
Percy not Josh were under the shelter. Very close 
to the fire Josh lay flat on his back and Percy's 
blonde head rested contentedly on his stomach. All 
rain signs had passed. The moon shone clearly. 
The air was piercing cold. Dragging the Easterner 
off his friend, I flung him on his blankets. I let Josh 
remain where he was, for weather conditions never 
affected him. For a moment I gazed at the Easterner. 
His pink, childish face evoked a sigh of pity. But 
when I recalled his fabulous tales and realized his 
ignorance of the ways of the woods, I determined 
to let him suffer some of the hardships as a possible 
curative against more of his characteristic recitals. 

In another hour I aroused Josh. In an instant 
he was up, the wiry, alert, sage, incomprehensible, 
capable native of yore. At once he strode to the 
side of his friend Dave and, kicking him in the 
ribs, shouted: "Git up, Dave. Here I's been callin' 
yu'ns for the last two hours!" 

Then altogether Dave's hounds resented the 
treatment of their master. In a body they started 

155 



JIST HUNTIN' 

to attack Josh. But, as ever, Josh was master of 
the situation and began to launch forth two very 
active and accurate feet in the ribs of the hounds 
as fast as they came near. 

Dave awoke and instantly stopped the battle. 

In a twinkling these two masters of woodcraft 
had the fire burning brightly, and in a little while 
after a good piping-hot breakfast. 

"Dave, do your ole fren' Josh a favor," Josh 
said, while pouring the coffee. "Go over to my guest 
and kick him in the ribs, so he can done set in on 
breakfast." 

Gideon hesitated. 

Noticing his diffidence, in three jumps Josh was 
at the Easterner's side and administered rapidly five 
terrific kicks in the ribs. 

"Git up," said Josh in his most affable manner. 
"Breakfast's ready and we'uns wants to be on a 
deer stand in annudder hour." 

Poor Percy! Rubbing his aching ribs, the slayer 
of countless deer, caribou, lions, tigers and what not 
did not radiate resemblance to such a terror of the 
wilds as he had depicted himself the night before. 
His bloodshot eyes, quavering voice and trembling 
hands did not emphasize him as a hunter. He looked 
like some lost babe in the woods, more than any- 
thing I could conjure. 

But Josh was to his succor before I could interpose 
any remarks. He had him in his arms and poured 
down a tremendous drink of his favorite beverage 
in his waiting maw. Such a quantity would revive 

156 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

a dead man — make a wren fight an eagle. Though it 
had no fighting effect on Percy, silently he got up 
and took his place at breakfast. Another dose of 
the same medicine and he was chipper as ever. 

"Josh," said Dave Gideon after breakfast, "I'll 
staht way back right now for the breaks of Bahn, 
and jist erbout sunrise I'll turn my dogs loose and 
staht a deer. You takes the ole stands." 

"Dave, jist erbout sun-up we'll be on our stands," 
Josh shouted, as Dave's hounds were proclaiming 
their delight at the anticipated chase. "Then as 
soon as your dogs commences to sing a while, I'll 
turn that houn' of mine loose. Then yu'll shore 
hear sum race!" 

Doubtless Dave agreed, for he walked away and 
soon was out of sight in the somber woods. 

A few more potations of mountain dew and again 
Percy was himself. He donned another hunting 
suit — an experienced big-game hunter could not 
have been expected to wear the same clothes two 
days in succession. 

"Mister Josh," Percy asked, struggling before his 
artillery which he had stacked against a log, "which 
rifle would you use, if you were I?" 

Now concerning the bolt type sporting rifle. 
Josh knew as much about one as he did of the history 
of ancient Greece, "Wal," conjectured the O'zarker, 
indicating with a dirty finger the Mannlicher, "which 
air this called?" 

"A Mannlicher," Percy vouchsafed. 

"The name licher sounds good," Josh said with 

157 



JIST HUNTIN* 

an air of finality. "Then las' night hit was the one 
yu'ns did all them big killins with, so jist take'r 
along. Now let's git a hustle on us, for the sun'U 
soon be over Wolf Holler Bluff." 

With the big hound in leash and carrying that 
lengthy ten-bore single-barrel gun, Josh led the way. 
The gun contained an antiquated brass shell loaded 
with 4>2 drams of black powder and a plenitude of 
buckshot. This was Josh's favorite load, and at 
certain distances it was positively guaranteed to kill 
any wild animal in the woods. Percy followed 
gingerly over the brush and down timber as the guide 
laid down instructions, one of which was that the 
easterner was not to leave his stand on any account 
until Josh called for him. 

Though I had been totally ignored in the planning 
of the day's hunt and the night before vowed nothing 
could make me participate, to act as a spectator 
I decided to follow unknown to the hunters. It 
promised amusement. Then, too, I was a bit keen 
to view Josh's new-found pet make his good per- 
sonal record as a slayer of game. I concealed my- 
self on the slope of a hill. From there I could view 
the place where both Josh and Percy would take 
their stands, as well as get the first sight of any deer 
coming over the ridge. 

At a point at the foot of a hill Josh stationed his 
guest. The hill sloped to a valley, and in the valley 
Josh assumed his stand in a thicket about two hun- 
dred yards east of Percy. He tied the dog to a sap- 
ling, then deliberately laid on the ground and slept. 

158 



THE HILLBILLY'S GUEST 

After a while at a distance in the west the hounds 
opened up. From the start it was a sight race. 
They pushed that deer through the hills straight 
for Percy's stand. Josh woke up. The deer almost 
ran over his guest before he saw it. 

Simultaneously Josh released the big hound. 

Then I beheld Percy, hatless, running after the 
deer had passed him, and all the while crying his 
loudest: "Look out, boys, he's coming! Look out, 
boys, he's coming!" Then he fired his rifle in the op- 
posite direction to the deer but directly toward Josh. 

Immediately the big hound leaped in the air, and 
as suddenly dropped with Percy's bullet mush- 
roomed in his brain. 

The Ozarker went wild with anger. Before I had 
even a chance to interpose, he leveled that long shot- 
gun at his guest and pulled the trigger. Only a 
ballistic miracle saved Percy for further flight. A 
cloud of dirt flung into his face. The sapling close 
by shivered from the impact of buckshot. With a 
look of fright as he saw the mad Ozarker, Percy 
fled at full speed. Before Josh got that long gun in 
action again he had passed over the big hill to the 
north and was still crying: "Look out, boys, he's 
a-coming!" 

But I was on Josh before he could reload and 
follow. I disarmed him. 

"Now get to camp!" I commanded. "Don't you 
move either until I get back." 

Later I shipped Percy's outfit to him, though I 
did not find him until the following afternoon. I 

159 



JIST HUNTIN' 

discovered him hiding in a clump of sedge grass 
between two immense boulders. He was cold and 
hungry, and implored me not to let Josh have him, 
I said little, but, taking him to a logging camp, I 
made arrangements for his conveyance to the nearest 
railway station. The effect of Josh's shot had been 
too much for his nerves, and I really feared that the 
combination of fright and moonshine had momen- 
tarily unbalanced him. But it was a vast relief to 
get him off my hands. 

"Josh," I said, for I was still mad at my guide on 
arrival at camp, "that's a pretty mess you got this 
deer hunt into, with that precious guest of yours." 

The Ozarker registered dejection. Knowing him 
well, I was positive the loss of the money he would 
have received from his guest was the only thing 
which could have brought about this state. 

"Mister Rushton," I rejoined with an injured 
expression, "gave me thirty dollars to pay you for 
your trouble. But you don't get a cent of it!" 

"Why?" Josh queried at once. 

"That money," I explained, "is going to reimburse 
the owner of that hound." 

"Turn that there money over to me then," he 
cried, "for there hain't no owner now but me." 

"No owner — explain?" I said, dumbfounded. 

"That ole fool houn'," Josh retorted, "was a-trailin' 
behin' one of them movin' waggins. He looked so 
hongry and poor, I jist totched my knife to the rope 
'nd he followed me, so I recken now I'm the only 
owner he's got. Hain't I right. Mister Johnnie?" 

1 60 



XVIII 
The White Wolf 

The many tales related by timbermen and squat- 
ters about the white wolf were sufficient to create 
both doubt and interest. But I hunted the foothills 
a long time before I got close to this wiry fellow. 
At first I received the tales with unbelief, for 
so many of them when run down proved only fabri- 
cations of a fanciful mind. 

Though I heard of white deer and had seen a few 
specimens, as well as albino ducks and opossums, 
it was hard to convince me that a white wolf ex- 
isted. For some time I cast the subject aside and 
perhaps would have thought no more of it, until a 
dependable Canadian squatter, Louis Duprez, in- 
formed me he had seen a white wolf a few nights 
before. Immediately this revived my interest and 
at once I was seized with a determination to secure 
it as a prize. 

Later I found others who had seen the white wolf, 
invariably on a moonlight night in a stretch of the 
swamps close to the foothills, which for some in- 
explicable reason had bestowed on it the name 
Arabia. It had no resemblance to that country, 
though, as inappropriately an overflow nearby was 
called the Red Sea, with no other historical backing 
than the statement from the oldest settler that it 
always had borne that appellation. 

i6i 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Both Arabia and the Red Sea were heavily tim- 
bered swamps, flooded most of the year. With a 
road wagon a trip could be made across it only 
during September and October; these were the only 
periods when the swamps were feasible for any 
vehicle except the loggers' lizards. Cypress brakes, 
heavy belts of tupelo and sweet gum, hickory, ash, 
and giant water oak mingled together in stagnant 
pools, that seemed interminably joined by narrow 
sloughs. Even on foot the going was anything but 
comfortable; for centuries of floods and storms had 
piled down timber in heaps, that were made almost 
impassable by the riotous undergrowth of twining 
spiny vines. As the sun was unable to penetrate 
the dense foliage altogether, the surroundings were 
gloomy and forbidding. Here and there a knoll of 
overly fertile land had tempted a few squatters, 
as well as the egret roosts an occasional band of 
plume hunters. Most of the swamp residents, how- 
ever, were engaged in hewing the big hickory and 
oak trees, and their homes were one-room, carelessly 
erected shanties scattered about the inundation. 

The early advent of spring grasses tempted the 
cattle men, and as the range was free, they made the 
most of it with their stock. For a long while I had 
been cognizant of the big bands of timber wolves 
that made their home in the swamps. Food in the 
shape of swamp rabbits was plentiful, and when so 
disposed the wolves never hesitated to kill a calf 
or full-grown steer. 

With some success I hunted wolves, but I found 
162 



THE WHITE WOLF 

no trace of the white one. At times I abandoned the 
notion, but soon resumed my quest when another 
story came to my ears about the white fellow. The 
mystery attached to it doubtless caused me to con- 
tinue my search. 

"De beeg loup blanc she cum in yard las' night 
*nd keel wan calf!" declared Mrs. Duprez, excitedly 
waving her hands. "Such wan jolie calf. She was 
a white wolf — le loup blanc. I seen heem in de 
moonlight. She was as beeg as — as — Je dunno 
what!" 

This much I discovered from those who purported 
to have seen the white wolf; he was very large and 
had never been seen in day time. On the theory 
that he would return to the Duprez shanty after 
another calf, I laid out three nights. In all direc- 
tions I heard wolves. A few came near the calf lot 
and I could see them plainly in the moonlight. But 
I was unable to perceive any bearing the slightest 
resemblance to a white one. 

Once more I was on the point of relegating the 
white wolf to the realm of the fanciful. 

"Comin' 'cross Open Pond las' night, j'ais — I seen 
de beeg white wolf!" Pierre Ledoux volubly assured 
me. "She cross sur une — wan cypress log at de upper 
entrance." Pierre always had laughed at the white 
wolf story. He was an old trapper — trapped during 
winter and shot egrets in the adjoining heronrys 
early in summer. 

"Were any other wolves with him, Pierre?" I 
asked, now more interested than ever. 

163 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"No. She be toutes seul — alone," he repHed and 
went on; "I start crossln' at de west end of Open 
Pond. Tought I go see Cy Hall, she seek. Quand — 
when I look east as de moon she rize I see de white 
loLip. She scent me, 'nd she run nord." 

It was early in the fall when Pierre Ledoux told 
me about the white wolf. I considered his recital 
as irrefutable; as on account of hunting together for 
a number of years I thought I knew him much more 
intimately than even the Canadian timber hewers. 
His most conspicuous trait was truthfulness and 
an entire lack of inclination even to exaggerate. On 
this account I felt positive that a white wolf existed, 
and I determined to hunt the swamps until I found 
him. So many had laughed at my former unsuccess- 
ful attempts I said nothing further on the subject. 

Early one evening I started through the swamps. 
Against my wishes an old Irish setter bitch of mine, 
Chlo, followed. If Chlo was afraid of anything 
on earth she had never displayed it. What she 
lacked in bird finding ability she made up in fight- 
ing. Somehow she had slipped her fastening and 
had picked up my trail. After second thought I was 
glad she came. Company is always welcome in the 
swamps, especially at night. 

The swamps were drier than usual. I followed 
a path to the Duprez home, just as night enveloped 
the swamps in a fold of blackness. There I filled 
my water jug. 

"Dit lui' pour rester jusque la lune s'eleve!" I 
heard the old lady call to her daughter. 

164 



THE WHITE WOLF 

"Thanks, but don't worry about me," I replied, 
*M won't wait until the moon rises; I'll turn in at the 
McCracken camp right away." 

I continued on my way, however, Chlo ranging 
out through the underbrush as though it were day. 
On arriving at a small knoll in a sand ridge, very close 
to a logging road, I camped. A little later supper 
preparations were in order, my faithful red dog 
awaiting patiently for the time I would give her a 
share. 

Presently I heard as though hounds were baying 
in the big woods east. I thought a gun was fired 
far away. The baying ceased. A little later wolves 
sounded their nightly swamp rabbit chase. For a 
while they circled at long range, but as night drew 
on their circles narrowed and were closer to me. 
Once in a while they desisted, but not very long at a 
time, and soon they were running very near to my 
camp site, as I could distinguish their movements 
in the underbrush. 

This was no cause for alarm on my part. Many 
nights I had spent in the swamps and no wolves had 
ever come close, though in big packs. I got ready my 
.303, however, in case of emergency. Chlo did not 
share my feeling of security. It was the first time 
I ever saw her exhibit fear of man or beast. She 
crouched close to me, shivering and occasionally 
uttering a low, whining note. 

Presently, I reflected, wolves killed dogs in the 
swamps. No dog that self-hunted at night ever 
returned. Would the presence of Chlo precipitate 

165 



JIST HUNTIN' 

an attack by this band? I asked myself this question 
a number of times. 

But the wolves continued running. I was about 
to laugh at my apprehensions when the moon ap- 
peared vaulting the cypress timber and giving the 
white sand road through the swamp the glint of 
polished silver. Some animal crept softly from the 
underbrush, and for a second stood silently in the 
middle of the road fifty yards from me. 

I could hardly contain myself as it dropped to its 
haunches and throwing back its head uttered three 
ear-splitting, blood-curdling ululations. I thought 
for an instant my eyes would burst from their 
fastenings. In the strong moonlight I saw that it 
was the white wolf. 

Pulling myself together I aimed right at the big 
creature's breast, and squeezed the trigger as it 
lifted its head for another ululation. But the sound 
never gained utterance. With the spiteful shriek 
of nitro powder I saw the white wolf leap in the air, 
snap twice at vacancy, then drop all in a heap on the 
soft sand. For a time I waited for further move- 
ment on the part of the wolf, but as there was none 
I knew that it was dead. 

Not a sound disturbed the serenity of the swamp. 
I found the animal stretched out, its tongue hanging 
out from its white-flecked muzzle and touching the 
damp sand. I called to Chlo, but no persuasion on 
my part could bring her near the kill. And even 
during the first minute of my exultation I could not 
restrain my inclination to laugh uproariously. 

i66 



THE WHITE WOLF 

Time showed that I had killed the white wolf of 
the natives, for he was heard of no more, but this 
one was not white. No doubt at some earlier period 
it had been subjected to a severe attack of the old 
enemy of canines, mange. From head to tail it 
was destitute of hair, and as the moonbeams fell 
upon its mottled pink and black smoothed skin at 
certain angles of vision it shone white. 



167 



XIX 

Vacant Collars 

For obvious reasons they were called the bibulous 
pair. And a bibulous pair they were. Had it not 
been so, this tale would never have seen paper. 
For two years they annoyed me with their ponstant 
importunities; always they were wanting to borrow 
a dog. Very often I accommodated them; and some- 
times the good wife loaned a youngster that had 
been too frequently on terms of familiarity with her 
poultry, in hope that the bibulous pair would lose it. 

The bibulous pair were employed at one of the 
big lumber mills and liked well the sport of quail 
shooting. Never had they been known to own a 
dog. A holiday seldom arrived without finding the 
bibulous pair filled up with hill liquor and a sur- 
passing desire to hunt. The first condition always 
brought about the hunting instinct. Their liba- 
tions invariably attained the humorous stage of 
liquor's influence and they remained in gleeful en- 
joyment until all effects had worn off. A sick day 
followed for each, as well as many promises of 
abstinence for the balance of their lives. But their 
promises they kept only until the next payday. And 
still they were liked, especially because they were 
strikingly amusing, never boisterous and regarded 
themselves very seriously. 

"Say, can't you let us have a dog for tomorrow?" 
i68 



VACANT COLLARS 

pleaded Jim, the inevitable self-appointed spokes- 
man of the pair, flinging my way a stifling vapor of 
distilled corn. "You know we'll take care of it. 
Won't we. Rube?" 

Though standing up. Rube was just sufficiently 
awake to acquiesce and allow a humorous leer to 
escape toward me. 

"I'll tell you, boys," I returned, not having a 
youngster I cared to trust to their shooting, "up at 
Dandin old man Hicks has two great pointers he'll 
sell for twenty dollars. Why don't you drive up 
there tomorrow and buy them? They are cheap at 
the price; and then you will have dogs whether I 
have one to spare or not. Don't you think that is a 
good chance?" 

"Sure!" assented Jim. "Rube, wake up. Shall 
we get 'em?" 

The worthy addressed lurched forward, caught 
himself against the picket fence, smiled agreement, 
then closed his lips tightly as though something of 
vast importance might escape if he parted them. 
This was as near as Rube ever spoke when brimming 
with liquor. 

"I'll tell you what," declared Jim, holding him- 
self extremely erect, feeling no doubt that the 
occasion warranted an attitude of extreme dignity. 
"You len' us twenty dollars until next payday, two 
dog chains, two collars. We'll borrow Mermot's 
buggy and go get those dogs. Won't we. Rube?" 

Rube repeated his speechless performance, which 
Jim translated as an agreement to his plans. 

169 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Twenty-four hours after payday was too long an 
elapse of time to expect either to be in possession of 
twenty dollars. So they became obligated to me for 
the money and in other ways. But I yielded, for 
I realized it was an easy manner to get rid of their 
begging dogs for a year or two. 

I happened by chance to be at Dandin the next 
day. As usual under the influence of their favorite 
beverage I saw them drive in Mermot's buggy to 
Hick's barn and quickly purchase the dogs. With 
chains they afiixed them to the rear axle and drove 
off slowly. The dogs tugged strenuously to escape. 
But, realizing that the vehicle was something supe- 
rior in the way of strength, finally they followed with 
a faint display of tractableness. 

At every store enroute home the bibulous pair 
stopped, bought drinks for the crowd, and invited 
them to gaze on the dogs for which they had paid 
fifty dollars! In those days all the stores had Blind 
Tigers in the back room. As soon as Jim commanded 
the attention of the bystanders he bragged about 
the dogs and the sum expended for their purchase. 
At the third Blind Tiger they had paid two hundred 
dollars for the dogs. Dog flesh was advancing 
rapidly in price. 

When the tenth Blind Tiger loomed into view 
through the dark and hard slanting rain, the price 
of dogs was still soaring. I was in front of the store 
when the bibulous pair fell out of their vehicle and 
entered. I followed them to the rear. Dogs had 
attained the excessive — one thousand dollars. 

170 



VACANT COLLARS 

"Hello, everybody!" exclaimed Jim. "Do you 
know we got some dogs — some dogs I say! Just 
got two from Noo York — cost a thousand dollars 
apiece. Didn't they, Rube?" 

As customary Rube committed himself with an 
expansive smile, propped himself against the wall 
and fell into a dozing state. 

"Come on, fellers," invited Rube's sociable friend. 
"Have a drink on me." 

The joint was crowded with loafers, and as usual, 
very dry ones at that. All drank and all joined in 
the invitation which Jim extended to see the dogs. 
Rube awoke and followed them out in the darkness. 

"Price Hawkins, leii' me your lantern, please," 
requested Jim in his suavest manner. 

The proprietor obligingly submitted to the de- 
mand. 

"If you want to see something real gran' — real 
gran* — . I say, if you want to see something real 
gran'," concluded Jim in mellowing tones. "Say, 
you wanta see the dogs — we got. Nothing can touch 
them — cost a thousand dollars apiece, didn't they? — " 

Rube was not visible, so was not able to confirm 
the statement of his boon companion. Such a 
trivial matter, however, bothered Jim none, and he 
continued to expatiate on the transcending qualities 
of the dogs. 

"Let's bring them in outen thuh rain, *nd we kin 
all see 'em!" exclaimed a bright member of the loaf- 
er's fraternity. 

"That's what I said long ago, didn't I, Rube?" 
171 



JIST HUNTIN' 

retorted Jim, whose tongue was giving him trouble, 
owing to his inability to handle it briskly. "Come 
on — some dogs — cost thousan' dollars. Don't be- 
lieve me ask — ." 

There was no Rube to fall back on for reference. 
Out of doors the rain pelted down mercilessly. The 
light of the lantern revealed Rube stretched out full 
length on the buggy seat, sleeping soundly and 
ignorant of the downpour, 

"Come on, boys, here they are!" guided Jim. 

Eager to behold the fabulous-priced dogs the 
patrons of the joint followed despite the soaking 
rain. 

"Say, where air the dogs?" asked an inquisitive- 
minded hanger-on. 

"The dogs — you durned fool — look under the rig! 
Where did you expect to see them — ridin' a horse?" 
Jim laughed in elation at his sally of wit. 

Because the dogs could not be seen right off, it 
was due no doubt to the excessive darkness. With 
the rain and the black mist one could not see a foot 
ahead without a light. 

"Hold the lantern. Price, 'nd I'll show you. Come 
on, Jake! Come on, Pete!" shouted Jim at the top 
of his voice as he floundered around in the muddy 
slush. 

There was no response from the dogs, not even 
the rattle of a chain. 

"Say — hold the light — under the buggy," asked 
Jim, his voice for some reason rather modulated and 
expressing dubitancy. "Shucks — they've — " 

172 



VACANT COLLARS 

Jim was unable to continue his speech. With the 
light in a position to view under the vehicle, all eyes 
peered unrewarded for some time in the lighted area. 
They beheld no dogs valued at a thousand dollars, 
not even a small dog valued at fifty cents. The 
chains were still there, as well as two collars very 
muddy and worn from dragging on the ground for 
a long time. 

Jim gasped for utterance, then fell all in a heap in 
my arms. But Rube slept on blissfully unconscious 
of the vacant collars. 



173 



XX 

Raoul and My New Brunswick Moose 

"Eh bien! Sum day I breeng you up on Tobique 
— better still de Raucous," Raoul promised. 

So it was the influence of Raoul that ultimately 
brought me to the moose country. He was a small, 
sturdy, red-cheeked chap, almost feminine of coun- 
tenance, whose accent showed on occasions both 
Canadian and Acadian ancestry. This latter trait 
showed the more closer I saw him south or when he 
spoke about the Bayou Teche. But, when he re- 
ferred to moose, the French of the north dominated. 

In the hill country of the middle-west, I first met 
Raoul de Giberville. He was noted not so much for 
his remarkable artistry at hewing big timber, as for 
his ability to drink more whiskey than any man I 
had ever seen. 

"Moose — by gar — they be so beeg — 'nd deers — " 
began Raoul, who had taken a strong liking for me 
because I could speak French. 

"But the expense — the cost of license," I inter- 
posed, "is almost too much for a man of my means." 

"Poof! Poof! Ces rien," Raoul explained. But 
this was only an habitual exclamation of the little 
Frenchman. He performed it by distending both 
cheeks to the proportions of two inflated toy bal- 
loons and suddenly exploding them as he extended 

174 



MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 

both hands, palms upward, in a gesture combining 
the Gaelic shrug and persuasiveness of a second-hand 
clothing-store salesman. At the same instant the 
aroma of fifty distilleries permeated the surroundings. 

"Perhaps I'll go some day," was my nearest ap- 
proach to any definite agreement. 

"Up on de Rancous we will go, maitenant," he 
tried to persuade me. "No — not now. Eh bien, 
sum time later." 

That was the last time I saw Raoul in the hill 
country, but his memory lingered, for the tales he 
had told me of his beloved Rancous had proven 
extremely alluring. Frequently I found myself 
speculating on the promises of the moose country 
and visualizing Raoul, as the little Frenchman's 
incomparable ability for storing liquor had left a 
trail of entertaining stories. 

The next sight of Raoul I had was down in the 
Sunken Lands, in the St. Francis swamp country. 
Certainly it was the same Frenchman, a little stouter, 
now with Acadian accent showing he had been in 
Louisiana, with ruddy cheeks that were plumper 
and that had attained a purplish hue. But it was to 
my delight unmistakably the same Raoul, for the 
odor of liquor clung to his person as tenaciously as 
ever. 

"Quel grande plaisir eet is to see you!" Raoul 
greeted me with open arms, as he stood hewing axe 
in hand, resting against a giant hickory he had just 
felled. Several natives gazed with drollery in their 
eyes at his effusive welcome. 

175 



JIST HUNTIN' 

"Well, Raoul," I responded, a little-shame-faced 
at his embrace, yet well-pleased once more to be- 
hold my favorite. "How did you ever drift here?" 

"The beeg heeckory timber she give out in de 
South; so much, so beeg she breeng me here. So 
much money I make, I go home to Rancous next 
fall. You cum wid me certainment this time — won't 
you?" And then he went on to relate what he had 
culled from letters received from a relative in New 
Brunswick. 

"Ah, the beeg moose — by gar! Rien ici like it, 
Monsieur Laureal!" Raoul related. "Dis year see 
hundreds — thousands! Vous cum wid me?" "But 
it is such a long trip for me!" I retorted, feeling that 
I was yielding to his mastery in recital on the subject 
of big game. "Poof! Poof!" Raoul deluged me with 
his ubiquitous perfume. "Seulment four jours — 
four days only 'nd we will be there. Let us drink to 
our meeting on the Rancous." 

At last the little Frenchman gained my promise 
to a visit up in the moose country during the com- 
ing fall. From a pile of half-green brush he produced 
a glass gallon jug of whiskey. It was almost one- 
fourth filled. He passed it around. The natives 
sipped, as well as I. When it came to Raoul's turn, 
he eyed it with an expression of regret, though there 
was fully a pint remaining. Raising the jug to his 
lips, and tilting back his head, he drank all the straw- 
colored liquor. 

"Say, Ral," exclaimed one of the swampers in a 
tone of envy, "how in the world do yu'ns do hit?" 

176 



MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 

"Poof! Poof! Ces rien dutout!" contemptuously 
the little man replied. "An accomplishment it is. 
Nobody knows how to do it, unless he cum from de 
beeg moose country." 

When I left the train at Indian town, Raoul was 
the first to see me. His pleasure at the occasion was 
much in evidence, also his famous odor. I thought 
he had gained in weight. He wore the woodsman 
garb of the North, and seemed perfectly enraptured 
at my arrival. He had my luggage together at a 
speed hardly believable, and I could perceive easily 
that he had something of importance to say, for he 
was doing his utmost to work me away from the 
populace. 

"Parle Francais toujours — you speak French all 
de time," he advised, "dey tink you Can-a-dian. I 
tell 'em you my cousin. No have to pay license pour 
nonresident." 

My silence Raoul conceived as acquiescence, 
though he gave me no time for appropriate answer. 
He rattled on volubly, expressing his inestimable 
pleasure at my visit. 

"Les grandes moose!" he continually exclaimed. 
"There is wan, too, j'ais sauvais pour vous. The 
spread something won-der-ful!" 

Two days of pushing upstream through unknown 
waterways we spent until we reached a country of 
small lakes, hills of spruce and small marshes of 
cedar. Then only we established a permanent camp. 
Enroute once we ate lunch at a camp of Easterners 
and they looked commiseratingly at my .^^ Rem- 

177 



JIST HUNTIN' 

ington automatic rifle, insisting that nothing but 
the high-power, bolt-type sporting rifle would prove 
efi^ective against moose. 

I knew little about moose, but before I left the 
party my head was a-whirl of confusion with giant 
moose, trajectory, spread of antlers palmations, and 
things I had little knowledge of whatever. But I 
do recall that none of the party had killed a moose. 
After we departed I remarked this to my companion, 
and also of the likelihood of my failure. 

"Poof! Poof! Ces Rien," he consoled, anointing 
me with his inevitable perfume. "Beeg moose here, 
beaucoup. You kill wan sure. Ze guides make fool 
dem fellers. Make largent — money — that much 
more the longer she keep dem out. Voyez! Man, 
she kill moose first day— go home — guide get not 
so much. Mebbe feefty dollar for showing moose. 
Ten days, guide she get more pay — want moose more 
badly, pay guide more. Voyez, mon ami!" 

Close to some spruce back from a large mirror-like 
lake we pitched our tent. The scenery was inde- 
scribably charming. The wild setting seemed to 
enthrall me as much as the prospects for the biggest 
moose. 

Day after day I saw many cows, and occasionally 
a young bull, which I would have been prone to shoot 
had it not been for the continual interpositions of 
Raoul. 

"Poof! Poof! Mon ami, ces tros petits, too leetle 
• — plenty time — attendait unpeau. Then — ah — wan 
beeg feller." 

178 



MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 

But days passed and I appeared no nearer the 
object of my quest. I enjoyed, however, the strange- 
ness of the country and the quaintness of Raoul. 
All the atavism in my being was suddenly aroused 
by the distance from civilization. I experienced a 
longing to remain forever. The very serenity of the 
environments held me spellbound, for undomesti- 
cated places had always for me an unexplicable 
lure. 

On the ninth day Raoul came into camp and an- 
nounced that the moose of moose had been in the 
neighborhood. Once we followed a trail, but only 
gave it up at dusk, though we had lost it many hours 
before. Raoul was too much of a sportsman to use 
a call. But he still remained optimistic. He had 
"wan beeg moose" for me, and only patience would 
bring me near it. 

The eleventh day Raoul advised me that he was 
obliged to go to a small settlement for supplies. Of 
the kind he most desired, I had my opinion. The 
last day, though his optimism was great as ever, 
there was something lacking about him which at 
first I could not classify. All at once it dawned upon 
me that his inevitable odor of liquor was refresh- 
ingly absent. This was the main reason why he was 
bound for the settlement; further examination re- 
vealed that we still had a fair stock of supplies, but 
the stock of bottles containing his favorite beverage 
had been entirely depleted. 

With nothing else to do T decided to make a try 
for moose alone. Hardly had I left camp, when 

179 



JIST HUNTIN' 

about an eighth mile up the lake on the right, I caught 
a glimpse of a big bull moving into the timber. 
Almost as fast as I beheld the creature I lost sight 
of him. This, however, was encouraging, so I took 
the same side of the lake. 

Stepping back in the cover for the purpose of 
circling, I heard the longing call of a cow. Then 
sounded back from somewhere in the timber, 00 — 
Wah, the answer of a big bull. Cautiously I pro- 
gressed to get an unobstructed view of the lake and 
found myself standing in a shallow pond closely 
surrounded by cedars. The call of the cow was re- 
peated faintly, and soon answered by the gutteral 
oo-ruh of a bull ready for a scrap. 

From the sound I judged the bull was not far 
away. Listening again for sound 1 heard the move- 
ments of some animal forcing its way through the 
close-grown forest near me. Then all was silent. 
Directing my eyes toward a growth of cedars, one 
spot seemed blacker and well corresponded with 
the surroundings. 

Was it a surge of atavism that bade me to be on 
the alert .^ This was the only explanation I could 
offer then, for I stared hard, and a black apparition 
seemed apparently thrust forth into sight. It was 
motionless. A swart monster bull stood among the 
cedars in front of me. The experience gained in 
the South snap shooting quails in timber came to 
my rescue. Almost automatically, yet quickly, I 
covered the big bull's left shoulder and squeezed the 
trigger of my Remington twice. 

i8o 



MY NEW BRUNSWICK MOOSE 

Instantly the huge animal swayed from side to 
side. Then alm.ost with the same motion the front 
legs spread apart, bent, and the whole body pitched 
forward. The monarch of the New Brunswick 
forest dropped dead in the shallow water. 

No feeling of elation came over me as the water 
splashed — rather a sensation of pity, when I viewed 
the big frame of the creature growing stiff in the 
last rigors of death. It had all been effected so 
easily, so unsportsmanlike. Achieving the death 
of the big creature with a modern high-power rifle 
was simplicity itself. A sense of disappointment 
overwhelmed me. Hundreds of times I had ex- 
perienced greater thrills when stopping a hurtling, 
incoming quail in the brush. 

And then followed in the wake of my performance 
a sense of regret, which neither the coming of Raoul 
nor his effusive commendation of my luck has ever 
been able to efface. It seemed a waste of nature's 
bounteousness to destroy such an immense creature 
without possibility of utilizing all for food purposes. 
Then a longing to bring back the head to civilization 
took hold of me. Apparently there was no chance 
in my mind. This I imparted to Raoul. 

"Poof! Poof! Ces rien when you know how," he 
answered encouragingly as a whiff of his spirituous 
breath scented his speech. Immediately he went to 
work and in two hours we were enroute back to 
civilization with the head of the big bull in the bow 
of our canoe. 



i«i 



XXI 

Strongfang of the Swamps 

A GRAY-FLECKED, ravcn muzzle gaped and ex- 
posed two rows of sinister, trenchant, repelling white 
fangs. A low cry was borne on the heavy atmos- 
phere to the canebrakes and shadowy flats of pin 
oak, only to die muffled in the cypress groves be- 
yond. Again the cry found utterance, more vocif- 
erous now, and conveyed the impressiveness of 
sudden exultation. 

By the children of the wild it was accepted as 
the voice of a conqueror. And repeated as it was, 
it encouraged no response. Strongfang fastened a 
triumphant look at the stricken foe on the knoll of 
hazels, then his eyes reverted to the meek, acquies- 
cent mate. The conquest of the breeding season had 
been achieved. 

At strongfang's command the female followed, 
with sloven, pacing stride at his flank. 

No longer were there any challengers to bar his 
way. The pair traversed the heavily timbered 
swamp unmolested. As one after another of the 
contenders had met with defeat, at present Strong- 
fang was sensing all the elation of triumph. Not 
another denizen of the swamp was there to fear. 
And fear was not a part of Strongfang; for even the 
heavy, sluggish black bear of the cane scatters ad- 

182 



STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 

mitted him superior. And why not? Was he not too 
elusive for his embrace? Could he not traverse 
greater distances for his kills — tirelessly and without 
risk? Had he not repeatedly proven that he was 
fleeter than the planter's hounds? Woe to the coura- 
geous dog that ventured near him! A swift back- 
ward snap of those cruel jaws, and a hound invariably 
fell back, mortally wounded. 

Pondering from his eminence, until intoxicated 
with pride over his recent achievements, Strongfang 
elevated his head and howled many challenges and 
maledictions at any possible aspirant to his honors. 
The sound floated far out to the open ponds, among 
waving beds of sawgrass, nodding flags, billowing 
yoncopins and russeted swards of fall-stricken 
smartweeds. No answer came to him. 

Such was his expression of the maddening lust of 
victory. And the accompanying mate, ever brush- 
ing afi^ectionately at his flank, made it all the greater. 
Now Strongfang gallantly strutted in the lead, but 
always on the alert for the one enemy, which, from 
his birth, he had avoided — Man. An instinctive rec- 
ognition of his presence by scent had proven an un- 
failing safeguard against him. The black wolf 
boasted to himself of it. 

Time and again he had arrived within close prox- 
imity of man, but always unseen. This sense, of 
which he had so vaingloriously prided himself, had 
often stood him in good stead. And now, as he paced 
carelessly over a carpet of sodden cane, that had 
been brought to this state by the last overflow, he 

1S3 



JIST HUNTIN' 

gave an amorous bound toward his mate. His big 
right paw crushed through the rotted underfooting. 
He felt it touch something hard, and then a pair of 
viceHke, unbreakable jaws fastened upon it. He 
was a prisoner. 

Momentarily the stoicism of his kind deserted 
him. Suddenly his conceit inspired confidence; he 
was positive that his great strength would effect his 
release. He gave a vigorous leap, but the effort was 
destitute of reward. The saw-garnitured jaws were 
unyielding. 

Observing his predicament, the female loped to 
him; she sniffed of him, and while rubbing her sides 
against him she licked him with her passion-heated 
tongue. But as he struggled again and again, gain- 
ing nothing by it, she promptly recognized his peril. 
Slyly she sidled off from him, then emitting a tim- 
orous whine of dismay, she dropped her long, bushy 
tail and fled. 

With head resting on his paw, he lay quiet all of the 
remainder of the day. Once, as the crimson stream- 
ers of passing day filtered through heavy cypress 
tops, he strove to free himself. Tugging as strenu- 
ously as he could, in long, extended strains, the jaws 
remained fast as ever. Then once more he resorted 
to a number of sudden agile bounds backward 
and forward, but the results were as ineffective as 
before. 

When at last the gray of another day gave pre- 
cedence to soft lights of red and gold, cheerlessly he 
surveyed for the thousandth time his inflamed limb. 

184 





> 

c5 



STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 

Abruptly he cast his eyes to the sky and he knew 
that day was fast approaching. Never would it do 
for him to remain there! Some passing swamper 
would surely discover him. Was man ever known 
to spare the wild pilferer when found at his mercy? 
At this instant his imprisoned paw, now swollen ab- 
normally, directed his attention. The pain had 
diminished and, instead, a deadly numbness perme- 
ated the entire limb. 

After Strongfang had been forced to concede his 
impotence, an inspiration immediately assailed him. 
There was only one way to escape Man — and, if he 
failed to put in appearance, as merciless an enemy 
awaited him, starvation — that was to sever the 
limb. And he alone must act the surgeon! 

Grimly he regarded the trap with agonized eyes; 
and, acknowledging that parting with the paw was 
less to be dreaded than the other two alternatives, 
he lovingly licked the offending member and, con- 
trary to the customs of his kind when in such peril, 
commenced the gruesome operation. Never before, 
even in his most desperate engagements, had Nature 
so exhibited the cutting powers of his teeth. And 
yet, as he endured his surgery, he felt some pride in 
his instruments. 

Just as the sun found the dwarf elbow brush with 
splotches of yellow, the operation was consummated. 
On three legs the huge black wolf dragged himself 
into an almost impenetrable thicket of switch cane 
and, sinking a gory stub in the damp sand, he re- 
posed on his stomach in a state of exhaustion. To 

185 



JIST HUNTIN' 

a considerable degree the sand acted as a palliative, 
and he remained there the balance of the day. 

With the advent of late afternoon a new danger 
was presented to Strongfang. While peering from 
his bed he caught a glimpse of Pete La Forge, the 
little, brown-faced, stoop-shouldered trapper, wend- 
ing his way parallel with the wolf's place of conceal- 
ment. As Pete was unarmed, there was no need of 
Strongfang worrying himself further than watching 
his movements. He had observed him many times 
before, and between the throbs of suffering he specu- 
lated on what the man was doing at this time of the 
year in the woods without a gun. 

Strongfang was not long to ascertain! 

Though this was not the trapping season, Pete had 
suspended on his back a few rusty traps, which 
clanked stridently one against the other. Now 
Strongfang knew why Pete was there; the flood siege 
had departed from the lowland only a few weeks 
ago and the trapper was gathering the traps which 
the water had hidden. He would take them to his 
shanty, clean them with an unctuous application of 
his own devising, then store them for fall trapping 
days. 

Strongfang regarded Pete's appearance with con- 
fused thoughts. 

Presently, arriving at the place of the accident, 
Pete stooped and, with his short-handled axe, knocked 
loose the fastening of the trap. Just as he lifted it 
he became aware of the wolf's paw, his little black 
eyes shining with delight. He put the trap from 

i86 



STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 

him and, using the axe handle for a lever, the helve 
under a root, stood his entire weight on it. The 
jaws spread apart. The paw fell out. He took it in 
his hands gingerly and, extending it a short distance 
from him, as though better to appraise it, he sud- 
denly flung it away in disgust. 

All this happened before Strongfang's eyes. 

With the wild creatures wounds heal rapidly. 
Pain ceases in a short while, but the memory is es- 
pecially retentive of the cause of the affliction. 
Though the mind of Strongfang was pregnant with 
thoughts of revenge against his fickle mate, it gave 
birth to another determination. Strongfang never 
allowed to escape him the spectacle of Pete throwing 
away the severed paw. And only after his wound 
had healed was the presence of Strongfang noted 
amidst his tribe. Meanwhile, despite his handicap, 
he found ways of subsisting; swamp rabbits cavort- 
ing nearby and overly playful squirrels afforded food. 
On occasions, when these were denied him, he par- 
took of decaying fish and turtles, which the fisher- 
men had thrown out of their nets. 

Far back in the great Saint Francis overflow his 
return to his tribe was marked with none of the 
conscious, swaggering mastery that characterized his 
deportnient before the accident. He presented a 
forlorn appearance. When hailed by his fickle mate 
and her companion smiles of derision were hurled 
at him. But they might have spared this much; 
for now retaliation on her or her favorite was not 
a part of his plans. Just then none realized his in- 

187 



JIST HUNTIN' 

firmity as fully as he. So he submitted to jeering 
voices without the slightest savagery of teeth, and 
finally made quarters on a small mound of rotted 
flags, where he was left to his own resources. 

From former leader he had fallen to a straggler, 
scarcely tolerated; for the weakest and least valiant 
of the band upon every occasion delighted to vent 
their contempt on the one who had formerly domi- 
neered over them. His bullying had been of only 
too recent occurrence for them to forget it so soon. 
But, now that his position was reversed, he sub- 
mitted meekly to the whims of Fate, and only bared 
his formidable fangs when the younger ones tor- 
mented him beyond endurance. 

And thus he existed, the urgings of hunger alone 
goading him from his lethargy, and the dash and 
animation which he showed before in the chase were 
supplanted by slow cunning. His movements were 
ungraceful. He crawled at times to save himself 
from tiresome travel on three legs. As days passed 
on he became less gregarious, his frame partook 
of gauntness, and his formerly sleek black sides lost 
their ravening luster. He was continually brooding 
over something. Now his haunts were near the river, 
and, moreover, they appeared to have been selected 
near Pete La Forge's shanty. Was there some in- 
ducement there? 

Crafty as was Strongfang, Pete sensed that some- 
thing was dogging his steps. 

Though the swamper had never beheld Strong- 
fang's incriminating prints, three immense wolf paws 



STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 

molded in the murky soil strengthened the im- 
pression in his mind that a wolf was trailing him. In 
that country it is not altogether inordinary; fre- 
quently bands and singles follow at a distance, out 
of mere curiosity. But such great tracks, in appear- 
ing behind him, were enough to convince Pete that 
there was more to them than the mere hallucinations 
of a malaria-wrecked system. Pete often retraced 
his steps to examine the ground, and as often as he 
did the same prints were distinguishable. Pete was 
positive that his mind was not olaying him a shabby 
trick. 

Summer disappeared and autumn hurried on in 
its wake, bright and tingling with the first snap of 
energizing frost. The duck shooting and trapping 
seasons were on. If the wolf's tracks had any pres- 
ent significance, they had already been erased from 
Pete's mind, the demands of his vocation calling 
forth all his time. Fall is the only time of the year 
when the swamp resident works to any extent; and 
then he is persistent about it. 

Pete had been busily engaged during the duck 
flight, and, now that it was terminating, he set out 
a number of traps. 

On this day a fierce icy drizzle drove in from the 
Northwest. Strongfang hopped from his cover in 
the scatters of the Saint Francis River to the very 
edge of the backwater. Wading to a small flag-en- 
circled knoll, he dropped down behind the screening 
growths of interspersing sawgrass. The swamper was 

189 



JIST HUNTIN' 

abroad, not as customary at this period of the year 
in his shallow-draft duck boat, but instead his legs 
were encased in high wading boots. While the 
wind was so vehement he had no desire to expose 
himself on the river. There were traps, however, 
near the skirting timber which he could visit. 

Sloshing around in the water at the foot of a slight 
circular elevation formed by the muskrats, Pete 
lifted his last trap. It held a small mink. He 
crouched to release it, as a furious gale of rain and 
pelting snow momentarily blinded him. 

As a man will, to ward the wind from his face, 
the trapper threw his arm up in front of him and, 
lowering his head, took a high step backward to 
release his feet from the sucking mud. Something 
caused Pete to lose his balance. In all probability 
it was the rubbery stem of a submerged yoncopin. 
Attempting to recover his balance, his brown claw- 
like hands sought for support a clump of flags. 

From out of the midst shot forth a black form. 
Then it was catapulted on the trapper, bearing him 
down. Long arrow teeth of unusual whiteness 
snapped at his arms and wrested them from his face. 
A large hairy paw, accompanied by a hard-stubbed 
leg, pressed firmly against his chest. 

Giving way before the onslaught, the trapper fell 
on his back in the shallow water. So bewildering 
had been the attack, that he let his axe fall and was 
unable to recover it. By sheer strength he tried to 
put his assailant aside. The futility of the act was 

190 



STRONGFANG OF THE SWAMPS 

apparent. As the beast waged his onslaught closer, 
the hot, fetid breath sickened him. Blood gushed 
from many wounds, crimsoning the clear water for 
yards around. 

Impotent as he was before the infuriated beast 
that relentlessly continued its murderous attack, 
Pete had sufficient consciousness to disengage his 
lacerated, shielding hands and pilot one to his 
pocket. It seemed ages to him. The earth appeared 
to have reversed positions. The entire swamp 
whirled and flashed baffling lights. 

Again and again he shrieked for assistance, but 
the blizzard mockingly flung back his cries. With 
the last particle of strength at his command he 
drew his precious claspknife. Mechanically pressing 
the spring, the blade flew open. But, as he repeat- 
edly attempted to elevate himself for a thrust, the 
inexorable, blood-lusting jaws beat him back into 
the water. 

All at once a bright inspiration broke through his 
dark cloud of despair; and yet, despite his nearness 
to death, it charged him with hope. Pete's limbs 
perceptibly relaxed, in indisputable second-by-sec- 
ond rigors of death. 

Feeling all this, for an instant Strongfang drew 
back and proudly surveyed his work. Sinking to 
his haunches and rearing his massive blood-soaked 
head aloft, he ululated a joyful cry of victory. The 
trapper's body rolled against him, the click of death 
rattling in strange discord with the song of the storm. 

191 



JIST HUNTIN' 

Pete's arm plunged rapidly and with accuracy. 
Its last earthly act drove the long blade in the black 
wolf's side. 

The wind whistled belligerently and fitfully, then 
ceased. A ball of gleaming light pierced the clouds 
and revealed Pete's head pillowed on Strongfang's 
rigid body. He still retained hold of the knife buried 
in the wolf's heart. 



192 



L 1 



